Returning from Vietnam , 1970
The MP at Oakland Airport
pokes me awake with a sharp baton:
get it together, mister,
straighten your tie, put your shoes on,
sit up, act military,
you’re not civilian yet.
I want to kill him,
such an easy thought now.
I look for a 45 or Bowie knife,
consider a kick to the head
sending his eyeballs back
to where they came from.
I know something’s wrong;
I can feel it.
It’s the smell of the village
after the napalm,
digging for bodies
curled crisp.
What’s wrong is
the rocket that shook
Tay Ninh Base Camp
disconnected my heart
from the rest of me
and covered it with ash.
After my plane lands
I’ll step onto a freeway
in the plume of Greyhound bus,
bony ass and shaven head,
so turned around I won’t remember
what I was like back then.
Cars will skid to avoid me
dragging my duffle bag
over the median,
people will gawk
at the jungle rat
marching to an odd rhythm
with a left, a left,
drop and fire.