no ground under my feet

It’s my turn at the little window.
I show my military ID

to the bored Army clerk.

He checks his list

and counts out my final pay,

hands me the crisp twenties,

a five, and two ones.

The fine that I was supposed to pay

for refusing to carry a .45

three months before

has apparently not been recorded.

So I don’t bring it up.

The exit is one step to the left,

and out the side door

into the steaming Carolina morning.

Nothing could be finer.

Fifty feet of narrow sidewalk

to the street where the taxis

wait to take us to the bus station

or the airport.

I don’t feel the ground

under my feet.

Don’t even feel the hard

leather of my dress shoes,

all I’ve worn for two years

on duty are boots.

The taxi driver asks, where to, son?

Take me to the airport, sir.

I can’t quite believe

I’m really free yet.

At the airport,

I go into the mens room.

Change into my civies.

Put those awful dress shoes

in the trash.

The mens room attendant

says, don’t you want those shoes?

He fishes them out of the can.

They’s almost like new.

No sir, you can have ‘em.

Still don’t feel quite free,

until I feel the wheels lift

from the runway and the engines

push me back into my seat

and the jet heads west

to San Francisco.

The stewardess says

Would you like something to drink?

Yes please! I’ll like a bourbon,

if you have it. On the rocks.

rear screen projection

His face, her face, we know them

from a thousand scenes.

Framed through a split-windowed

windshield, the ring light picks out

his two-day stubble,

and the cosmetic beads of sweat

gleaming on his cheeks and brow.

Her glycerin tears and dark lipstick

so artfully applied by the studio makeup artist.

Tendrils of Lucky Strike or Camel smoke

curl out from their anxious mouths.

Seen through the back window,

the footage filmed by the second unit

of empty Mojave roads, Manhattan neon,

or suburban Burbank plays on

a rear projection screen

We hear his voice but his lips don’t move,

so we know it’s his feverish thoughts

bouncing wall to wall inside his skull

as he replays the double cross

that he should have seen,

the trap, the trap, the trap.

Maybe I could recreate this scene,

this trope of the silver screen on Zoom.

Carefully arrange a key light on my face.

Skip shaving for three days.

Dab some glycerin on my upper lip.

Light up a Lucky or Camel.

Mount a vintage steering wheel to my desk.

Find some stock footage from the desert:

a sun-bleached cracked two-lane road

lined with Joshua trees and creosote bushes.

Abandoned shacks and motor courts.

Play it on a virtual rear window behind me

while I tell my stories over sirens,

gun shots, screeching tires,

trombones and moaning violins.

Make my voice the voice of dread.