Flashback

There he sits as usual,

alone with his innermost thoughts;

these days he’s content to be alone;

no other company is sought.

No wife’s homey chatter, no noisy kids’ clatter,

only the blessed quiet

that surrounds him on the outside,

but now, in his head, there’s a riot.

Noisy, whirling chopper blades

join chattering, clattering guns,

as he groans and curses the darkness,

praying for the morning sun.

Then Spooky’s flares turn the night to noon,

as with a whirring roar,

a red tongue of tracers licks hungrily down,

searching the jungle floor.

The enemy retreats on silent feet,

ghosting away through the trees,

while the choking smoke gradually floats

away on the drifting breeze.

But suddenly, he sees that there are no trees,

no underbrush, nor any leaves,

just the rumbling tanks advancing in ranks,

rolling along on TV.

So, he suppresses a sigh, blinks rueful eyes, 

aims the remote control,

and with a firm, gentle press of his finger,

retains his hold on his soul.

ã Thurman P. Woodfork 3/25/2003

Webmaster: Thurman P. Woodfork