WWI Trench

Treading lightly through snaking,
muddy trench
Squeaking boots with slippery
grooves synch
A mass of matted flesh bares its
rotten stench
Thirsting maggots, doting flies
cannot quench
No rustic accoutrements adorn, not
even a bench
Deep longing for warm touches of
caring mother, practiced wench
But only cold, rancid rain does
shriveled limbs drench
In crowded hovel, selfishly hoarding
space, miserly grinch
On the perimeter, attentively
guarding every blood-soaked inch
At the sound of concussive fire,
conditioned body doesn't flinch
Chiseled teeth in tandem solemnly
do clinch
Only my spent gut, as churning
butter does wrench
With dutiful vigor, watching every
strand of demarcated pinch
At the slightest, forward motion,
my hawk eyes squinch