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| Life in the sixties comes in with a squall, With missiles and marches, the moon and the Call; With dreamers at rallies and grass on a knoll; With flowers, Black Power and food for the soul; With libbers and peaceniks, The War and The Wall: The Baby Boy New Year fell in at a crawl. His mom tells a tale of a boy and a girl. A bloody white flag is about to unfurl. He hugs her and places a cross cut from jade Around her sweet neck. She trembles, afraid. In whimpering bedrooms the sisterhood grieves. A Fantastic Voyage, their boy is at sea. Caught by unfriendlies; he tells them a joke. They don't seem to get it. They give him a poke. They taunt him and jeer. On a long muddy march They toss him aloft from a tumbledown arch. Under thunderous cover he hides in the rain. He leaves them all laughing. He's on his own plane. He flies down a hillside, three wheels on a roll; He skids down the tarmac and smack, hits a pole. Three times with the hillside, the smack and the pole— One joy of a hell-ride in half in a hole. An arm and leg later, he presses his luck. The last time he sees her, she’s off on a truck. He crawls through the basements in jealous defeat. His soldiers are melted. He's dead on his feet. The fighters in facemasks burst in to expire, With jackboot precision, the hospice afire. The captain relieves him. He sounds the retreat. The pavement is cool but he still feels the heat. Laugh with the children; stand up for a chum; Eat plenty of veggies and tend your green thumb; Respect tribal elders, his father said, son, Mind your own beeswax; don't futz with a gun; No resting on laurels; be more than your sum; Wipe your own arse and be kind to a bum. |
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