stumps at the VA hospital

[[ previous poem in verse/lyrics form, with two sections ]]

= = = = =

Wait for us here.

in the designated area

Don't make a move

or we may never find you.

Hang on to your balls, boy,

We're going in.

A man with a stump

for a leg wheels in

stump-first down the corridor

stage left.

A woman with more stumps,

fewer limbs, rolls in

propelled by a nurse

stage right.

The two cross in front of me

and pass with no sign

they notice me or anything.

Hang on to your balls, boy,

We're going in.

= = = = =

Now I am running

through all the possibilities

like it's my job to shoot

these action movies

A prehistoric helicopter shot out of the sky

by a man with a cylinder at his ear like he was listening

A slow fat cargo plane with entrance and exit wounds

by three gunners who simply can not believe their luck

A pressure-sensitive mine planted long ago

by a dead man and forgotten until just the other day.

An IED laid yesterday with a telephone trigger

for the man whose only job was to watch and to push

A sniper hidden, still, and unsuspected

'til he fires off one, two, three from a mile away

I can't stop running

through all the possibilities.

I can't stop running

through all the possibilities.

what could happen

I am waiting in a designated waiting area. Do not move, I am told.

So I hold still in a middle of a row of plastic chairs in a corridor with my interlocked hands resting over my crotch.

A man with a stump for a leg wheels stump-first down the corridor from the left. 

Simultaneously, a woman with more stumps and fewer limbs rolls by the other way propelled by a nurse looking for somewhere to leave her. 

By chance, they cross almost exactly in front of me, the chairs with the people with stumps, and pass on with no sign that they notice each other or me. 

Now I'm running through simple possibilities like it's my job to shoot action movies.

A jet fightSURPRISEer shot right out of the sky by a man with a cylinder held to his ear like he was listening for them coming. No, a big fat slow cargo plane shot at and shot at aSURPRISEnd shot right through lots of smoke and three men with artillery who cannot believe their luck. 

A pressure-sensitive mine planted by a dead man, by which of course I mean he has since died, and forgotten, the man and the mine, unSURPRISEtil the other day. Or a mine laid just yesterday with a telephone trigger for the man whose only job was to keep watching keep watching for tSURPRISErucks coming out of the town. 

A sniper half buried in sand and invisible for all practical purpSURPRISEoses witSURPRISEh a riflSURPRISEe designed for such occasions. 

I can't stop running through all the possibilities.

lapis lazuli

Do you remember

the twenty-first century?

When everyone splendid

would bathe in the nude

in a pool in the wood?

When everyone splendid

was splendidly good?

Do you remember

the twenty-first century?

When everyone's friend

siphoned gasoline nights

just to set it alight?

When everyone's friend

was so right?

Where are we now?

All of our years 

whirled away?

We have washed our hands clean

with a little gasoline 

and some noise

We have made our big play

only traded away

a few boys

We have sung the Afghanistan blues now in every saloon 

this side of the moon

in the nineteenth century

in the twentieth century

in the twenty-first century

in every saloon 

this side of the moon

we have sung the Afghanistan blues

Do you remember

the twenty-first century?

When everyone struggled

to nurture a bruise

to be shown on the news?

When everyone struggled

to cover the ruse?

Do you remember

the twenty-first century?

When the world was run

by a troop of baboons

under two rising moons?

When the world ended

one afternoon?

Where are we now?

All of our years 

whirled away?

We have washed our hands clean

with a little gasoline 

and some noise

We have made our big play

only traded away

a few boys

We have sung the Afghanistan blues now in every saloon 

this side of the moon

in the nineteenth century

in the twentieth century

in the twenty-first century

in every saloon 

this side of the moon

we have sung the Afghanistan blues