He was never fully conscious of it
but he was despised  by many of us raw
working class recruits  on the bus to Pettawawa
for basic military training
what sort of 20 yr old would wrap a crimson
moired  scarf  round his neck
‘to preserve one’s singing voice’—  
and talk about himself  just like that— in the third person
as if he was referring to some other guy.

One hot summer day while on guard duty
at the Governor General’s House
Morrow flopped off the elevated walkway in a crashing faint
a clang of metal as his rifle & bayonet smashed against the concrete
I had to laugh ghoulishly inside as
tourists gasped & took photos of him
sprawled & moaning on the hot asphalt .

That last night in Ottawa
you could sense any sort of ugliness was possible
the guzzling, the shouting banter
the unconstrained youthful exuberance
the carefully polished/ sparkling  black boots
being flung, heaped in joyous ecstasy
onto a metre high pyre & lit—
the rubbery black fumes chocking, wafting—
the young male reservists dancing spasmodically
many fuelled, cacked up on tequila.

I don’t know whose idea it was
but the mob finally turned on Morrow
‘the guy with the singing voice’
in a frenzied, atavistic way—
they dragged him from his bunk
& as he pleaded  & screamed
they stripped him bare
& shoe polished his slender frame
& then flung him   
onto a soddened heap of topsoil.