These dear little knicks, I came upon in an army and navy store. Such places I like to frequent because, me, I’m always on the look-out for ’70’s American armed forces sport wear, in particular the grey marl sweats. Truth is—while truth is told—my Poppa was in the American air force, stationed in Suffolk, England. Me, I am not ashamed to say that I affiliate myself to a military life—that is, the discipline, rigour and fitness. Don’t get me wrong, violence is not my kick, no way. I aspire to my Poppa’s memory and I like to run in gear of his ilk and oeuvre.

They are old, these camis, for sure. Yet virgin: unworn, unmarked.  The spoils of war, me recks. I washed them to get out all the fusty storage smell. Stylish petite shorts, they are of a thick jersey cotton, with an open seam at the front. Unisex? I defy any man to fit into them. I guess they would fit a young boy at most. Makes you wonder at the youth they used to send out to the war. Birthing the term ‘Infantry’.

But who likes to think about that? Lost souls, lost loves, men passed and gone. Too soon. Me, I’m getting the willies and I don’t like it, not at all. Force a smile, A.C. (that’s me). A Mona Lisa smile.

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