On the last day of basic training
two draftees in dress greens,
shouldering M-14’s marched lockstep
in a prim parade singing
from the sides of our mouths,
“I love a parade, the tramping of the feet,
I love every beat I hear of a drum…,”
couldn’t stop laughing at the pomp
and silliness of the grim faces
on the review stand,
the flashes of brass, medals and ribbons,
chests out, stomachs in, upright chins,
couldn’t contain the hilarity
of parading our involuntary servitude
to the blare of John Philip Souza
And as the rocket jolted the fire base
inside the Cambodian border we laughed
at the craziness of diving headfirst
into the slosh of a bunker flooded
with cigarette butts and monsoon rain
Now the band’s here again, Main Street,
Boomtown, USA, and so am I,
quietly watching the spectacle repeat itself,
ridiculous enough, not quite as funny