By PAUL LIMA
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My father did not fight in the war
Instead he broke rock
In the north country
Laid wide beds of rubble
Poured long winding streams
Of hot asphalt and slowly
Painfully forged meandering
Blacktop that became Trans-Canada

My father did not fight in the war
Instead he laboured under
kitchen general--proud overseer
Of potato peelers--stirred deep
Cauldrons of thick broth and
Dished out lumpy servings
To long lines of hungry misfits

My father did not fight in the war
Instead he wore a white feather
To demonstrate his pacifism
And for this they made him serve time:
Rough rocks to break and haul
Spoiled spuds to peel and boil

My father did not fight in the war
Instead they made him remember
As amputated souls marched by
With brightly polished medals
Pinned tightly to holes
Where young hearts had once beat

My father did not fight in the war
And when they discovered
They could not break him
They wore him down slowly
Painfully like so much rubble
Then buried his remains
Beneath the blacktop of their history