Here’s the secret about war.
It’s such a bore–
rats and roaches,
if you can find it,
tuned to cooking tips, and
worst of all, the community clothesline
with mountains of shirts and sheets
ready to pin up beside a stranger’s underwear.
Worse even than that: sad-sack shirts and pants
abandoned on the line,
that shimmy and shake in rough winds
or hang in the rain, till the
chaplain’s wife unpins them,
to send back home with a letter.
But once, his band played the island
and oh dear God,
we danced to String of Pearls.