To stay awake
on the jungle floor,
I analyze mosquitoes,
crawling, stinging creatures
a boy might fear,
and the confusion of why
they would laugh so loud:
my father, my brothers,
on the day the draft notice
shot up from the mailbox
as white and ordinary
as a water bill,
so eager in their bellies
for the boy famous for
his cocky mouth and easy ways
to finally pay his dues
I glanced from them
to the blossoming dogwoods
on our Missouri street,
heard the blast of claymores
I’d heard about,
felt the snap of wire
across my shins
I do not fear those here
I hope to snare and scatter,
but nights ahead back there,
three a.m., wandering a dark house,
blasting caps on my mind,
echos of the crazy laughter
of my father’s sons,
the old losers at the bar
gunning for me to find out
what it’s really like in the real world
–South Vietnam, 1969