Bam! Just like that, the enemy appears out of nowhere.
He runs through barbed wire, tiptoes around land mines
and mysteriously evades all our fire.

I run as fast as I can, but I’m drenched in cold sweat
and all out of breath, getting too old to fight to the death.

No amount of fancy footwork, feint, poke and parry
gleaned from Mohammad Ali can keep him at bay.

All I can plot is an uppercut to his prominent jaw.

He’s silent, swarthy and well camouflaged.
The FBI suspects sabotage, but can’t get a photo,
Fingerprint, or DNA.

He’s a creepy guy, with stubble on his Mussolini-like chin
who skulks around in dimly lit parking lots reeking of gin.
Maybe he’s an x-cop or a terrorist with a portable nuke.

All I’ve got is my BAR that’s now too heavy for me to lug so far.

He’s as enigmatic as the Loch Ness Monster
who never shows his face but is totally fanatic in giving chase.
Nabbing him is like trying to catch a fish with bare hands.

As he closes in, I order my men to charge with fixed bayonets.

In a pinprick of darkness I see sparks fly from the clanging of steel
as I listen to the tolling of bells from a world still green
on far away mountainsides.

Even though he fights with a rusty scythe he emerges unscathed.

I can’t stop coughing up blood.
As I lie flat on my back, deliriously feverish
in a final bout of viral pneumonia, I discover the enemy is my friend.