I haven’t been here long enough.
That’s what’s wrong with me.
I still look down
when USO girls bring popcorn
on their way to the officer’s club.
I’m puzzled by the movie
lasered from the bunker
over two dozen young men
on blankets, cushions, lawn chairs,
making their beer ration last.
When the siren goes off,
I scrounge with the others
to the nearest bunker,
huddled, with no weapon.
The sound track growls down.
The projector clicks to black.
It’s a war again, and even then,
someone coughs.
I wait for sappers
to toss canvas bags
into our middle: dead,
age 22, of plastic explosive.
Two MP’s with megaphones
tell us the alert is over,
a chopper flipped on a power line,
pilot and gunner deep fried.
When I’ve been here long enough,
I’ll stay with the others
to finish the movie and popcorn.
I wont go back to the hootch,
cry all night
and listen to a distant carbine
fill my dreams with lead.