2-2-96
You give us words of comfort
to instill courage, and console -
but I find them empty,
as the flak jacket in your hooch.
You speak of honor and bravery,
standing there, in your starched uniform -
so crisp and snappy clean,
as we sit, wearing yesterday’s blood.
The tension is palpable
as you finish your sermon -
all we hear are the whirling blades
of the iron birds, waiting.
Fear has an odd way of numbing,
from which I find far more comfort
than all your holy words of salvation
and eternal life beyond the battles.
Go to your hooch, Sky Pilot -
embrace your darkest fear,
and pray to your God, in thanks,
that you don’t have to go and fight.