Halfway House

I think of it as a halfway house – Camp Mirage –

a place between war and home

where we write letters and wear shorts

and watch outdoor movies from our lawn chairs

in the sand of the volleyball court. Guys make jokesabout Afcrackistan.

At the Canex we buy new sheets in which to sleep

and Dubai silverware to send home because it’s cheap.

There’s even a bus that will take you to the Emirates mall.

If you’re lucky you’ll see the camel jockeys

on their tracks of sand, racing alongside the highway

and the stable boys carrying tea to the powerful, perfumed sheikhs,

their white dish-dash flapping in the breeze.

All this, as you find your way to the souk

to buy pearls

or a ring.

Also at the halfway house

between war and home, the bodies come temporarily to rest,

bumping down in their soundless metal isolation, offloaded,

then the plane refuels. The pilots hunch tiredly over tea.

The loadies stand out on the runway, glovedand smothered by heat.

It’s a different desert for them. Not opulent, but removed.

They get what’s leftover.

They get the dead.