Helmets

We lift cyclone fencing,
break in where we always do,
watching for White-Caps.
Each time it’s different, but
there is always treasure.
Today it’s helmets:
scuffed flashes, cracked visors,
nicknames, scorch marks.
We give them our stories, 
speculate, outbid each other 
with dogfights and ejections,
trade made-up hero uncles,
animate their exploits
with swooping hands until, at last, 
the guards appear with dogs
and we escape under the wire 
of Stalag-Luft III.