12-man barracks room
all to himself.
In one of the so-called
“temporary quarters”,
French prefab buildings
left over from the
post World War II
occupation of southern
Germany.
The French went home,
it’s American now, Fort Black Jack.
One of the field bases
for the Pershing missile system.
Live ones. Four of them.
Loaded with nuclear warheads
and ready to launch
with a five minute countdown.
Hassel doesn’t have
a job on a missile crew,
he’s in charge of the armory.
Where they keep the M-16 rifles
and .45 caliber automatic pistols.
He got the job after the previous armorer
accidentally shot himself in the chest
while cleaning or fooling around with a 45.
He lived, but never came back to the base.
Hassel has a good stereo
in that big empty room.
And lots of records.
The floors are hardwood
smoothed by years of wax
and hundreds of soldiers’ feet.
Hassel doesn’t dance.
He watches me and Brown
slide and swirl, our boots
stashed in the corner,
our heads full of primo
Afghani black hash.
Our olive drab GI woolen socks
slide as smooth as ice skates
on the polished wood floor.
And oh, as I turn,
as I live inside the song,
as I reach towards the ceiling
as I close my eyes,
and Jagger sings:
May the good lord, shine a light on you,
Make every song, your favorite tune.
May the good lord, shine a light on you,
Warm, like the evening sun.
