There were two flies fucking in mid-air.
That requires wings, Alex thought.
Most men never receive their wings—they never fly above things.
Those who do
learn to sleep in the wind—
because
they’re too afraid to touch back down again.
Nursing home food reminded him of K-rations.
There was nothing glamourous about dying in the war,
and there was nothing glamourous about dying in a home.
There was nothing glamorous about death, period, or the lives people lived up until their death,
and despite this fact,
Alex couldn’t stop thinking about it.
He had waited for something to happen after the war, but it had never happened.
Just work—endless days of Max Realty Company—the feel-good feeling people have of not being on the streets, of going shopping on Saturdays, of enjoying sports games on Sundays.
Alex longed for war.
When the war ended, he felt like part of himself died—he was missing a thumb.
He came upon a Samurai in the swamps and shot him in both shoulders with a .45.
Alex didn’t finish him off.
The Samurai begged for a bullet, but Alex wouldn’t give it to him. He felt guilty about that afterward—it was a guilt that grew on him, as he got older, like a wart or a skin tag.
An alligator nibbled on the Jap in the night—eating him slowly, while he screamed.
It was music to Alex’s ears. Death and suffering were all around him then—it was loud. Death and suffering were still around him—it was quiet. Patients died impatiently—they couldn’t wait to go.
There was the smell of excrement and vinegar in his room. It reminded him of the war hospitals. Alex had cancer, TB, anemia, and some other things he couldn’t pronounce.
Death was eating him from every angle in the dark, just like that alligator was eating that Jap, but he couldn’t complain. He waited patiently for the silence.
His nurse walked in.
She reminded him of a fat silkworm in tight white clothes.
“Mr. Johannson, it’s time for lunch. Soup is on the menu.”
“That would violate my diet. I’m eating salads.”
“Who are you trying to impress?” Mr. Johansson. “You’re over 90.”
“Betty’s husband died 20 years ago. She’s in play, and she keeps leering at me from across the hallway.”
“Mr. Johansson, you have trouble getting out of bed, let alone, going to Betty’s room.”
“Maybe—I’ll find my strength.”
“You’re an incurable romantic, Mr. Johansson.”
“I know. Love will kill me.”
She left, and Alex exhaled.
“God, what I wouldn’t give for a cigarette—”
Across the room, his closet was open, and his army green uniform was hanging there, like a POW who had been tortured for three years.
He shook his head to get rid of the image, but it was frozen in his mind, like those battered bastards at Bastone.
Originally published at The Old Army Officer
– Note of the editor – During this writing adventure of mine, I even tried poetry, but as life became harder, and my romantic side grew older and bitter, I just abandoned my silly attempts to write beautiful things (or to write beautifully about things). But that does not mean I stopped reading poetry.
This provoking, compelling poem, The Old Army Officer, I found on a wonderful website, Just Poetry and the author graciously allowed me to post it here. If you enjoyed it please make sure to check his work.
The Classic Machines 