Things in our country run in spite of government, not by aid of it. Will Rogers
It's been awhile since I dusted off some of my old poems. I found this one that I'd almost forgotten I'd written -
I just heard Tom T. Hall sing
"Back when gas was thirty cents
a gallon." For a dollar
I could buy seven glasses
of beer, then dream nightmares
of dancing with, fat, boozy,
foul-mouthed women. Good neighbor
below us just mowed leafy
spurge in his horse pasture,
and I bought a rich armload
of books at my favorite
thrift store where a college prof
keeps them lined up on their shelves.
Epic fires eat at Texas
and I still write of blizzards
stalling wagons trains back home.
Then there is this one, probably the most thoughtful one I've ever written -
We were drinking beer in Herb's
when Walter said, "Your dad should
have kicked your ass more often
just as far as I'm concerned."
Walt was a World War II vet,
a gunner in a bomber
who told of watching bullets
bounce off the armored belly
of German jets he shot at.
He flew thirty-some missions.
How could I argue with him?
Just maybe he knew something.
Then I looked beside Walter
to the next man. He'd once said
a man could have walked ashore
on floating soldiers' bodies
killed while attempting to land
on gory foreign beaches.
He rarely spoke, yet his eyes
looked at me saying, "He's right."
The next in line at the bar,
a D-Day paratrooper,
spoke cheerfully, masking facts
of his war - hearing screams
of Germans after he threw
explosives in their concrete
bunker. His box of medals
sat unsung, collecting dust.
In spite of his easy laugh
his eyes pierced this guy's know-it-
all attitude to say,"You
have a lot to learn yet, boy!"
Though my spirit had weakened
from this beating I'd taken,
I could still stand at the bar.
My eyes settled on the vet
who hosted a metal plate
in his head for which he'd paid
a piece of his skull and brain.
The crew of his tank had stopped
to cook coffee. A sniper
traded his bullet for the flesh
of this man, neutralizing
forever his reasoning.
Those unfocused eyes watched
me through a clouded beer glass -
was I friend or enemy?
the one who had wounded him?
I had entered this man's world
thinking I was an equal,
but this cadre proved harsh worlds
apart from mine existed.
That ragged line extended
further down the long counter,
and men's faces became blurred.
Each had his private story
and bore sore wounds in body
and mind. Retreat from their hell
was the better course for me.
Years have passed and none remain
to share their stories and shame
me into humility.
It is this I remember.
