Jungle boots with tread worn thin. A part of me, a second skin. They carried me to parts unknown and never failed to bring me home. Caked with mud and canvas torn. They hate polish; they must be worn. In deserts dry or jungles wet when huddled ‘neath mosquito nets. Jungle boots protect my feet…

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Little Jack Duffy went off to the war In 69’ he asked for some more. His stature was slight but his courage immense. His drunken wife once knocked him off a fence. All the psychiatrists, doctors and men couldn’t make little Jack better again.  His pain was unknown, repressed and unseen. Seeking solace in bottles…

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