By Richard Fein
By the time puttee required a dictionary graphic
or haunted an agéd doughboy legging a memory
GI ware had packed the bins of surplus stores,
and attack gliders were long suspended in museums
before helicopter gunships became all the rage.
A smarter generation of warheads was in the pipeline
getting readied for its role in the new theater
while drones were being lensed on the drawing board,
learning how to shoot nests of hidden launchers.
It’s a pity we didn’t just stick with spear,
sword, and shield, war keeping to old devices,
losses weighed in familiar pans of the human scale.
Nothing matches war, body for body for body.
Just think of all those veteran posts all around
the country, in every county, often rented out
for weddings, anniversaries, meetings,
and while celebrants dance, toast, clap,
that Vet brotherhood huddles at its own bar
by the separate entrance back around the side,
where an old howitzer is disabled near the door.
Copyright © 2021 by Richard Fein.