Seared; dizzy tired
in prickly clothes that stink of sweat
and rotting toes,
he bounced between the madness of
a hundred bugs about his throat
and something not quite conscious.
Sees brothers wasted,
hot rods racing;
making out with Rachael,
tastes icy beer.
She laughs till tearing,
dances to the Family Stone’s
bassy beats of heat in hasty
“I’m Proud of you my son” He’s shown.
“This war’s for what is clear.”
Threat whet as hawk stalked, weary,
walking, march in forces, forward
fogs mottle the half dark morn
Steams him mid-well done.
Point before a fearless file,
now, he is the only one.
He can’t take charge;
step; sleep; stumble; follow.
Week’s march’ Stop; start;
Frightened and relieved to press his face against the ground.
As the numbness drowns the hounding sounds
he hears the wind, feels a door.
Protests of echoes paint deluded,
neutered roars fading fast,
incense, Thai grass.