—after Basic Training
Let me take the Trailways far from the barracks of Bravo Company
to my father’s corner of the ramshackle fourplex
with its stairwell that smells like motor oil and beer,
Aqua Velva, cigars and critter piss, like the armpit
of dilapidated Jackson itself, and when I arrive to no
running water, let me shuck my Class A’s and walk
beside my father with a bar of soap. In our cut-offs
and flip-flops, let us stroll with a total absence of stealth
up the hill to the Bel Aire with its lovely unguarded swimming pool
where we’ll set our beers down by the lawn chairs
and swim a lap for appearances’ sake, big orange August moon
hanging over the rooftops like a busted bicycle reflector.
Let me stay there for a sudsy moment with my old man—
miles from marching, let me forget how to lock and load
my twenty round clip and shoot the green pop-up targets
shaped like humans with no arms. And when people
who actually live in the Bel Aire walk by the pool and we wave
to them, let them say hi like they would to any swimmers
because we do look like rent-paying neighbors
in the second before they register the underwater light
like a train’s beam shining through the shallow end,
and the two men, the son and his father, up
to their chests in a widening nest of soap bubbles.