We left the quarter peep shows, the lurid skin

magazines and comical, unimaginable toys,

and headed down the block toward the Quakers, a fever in

us from freedom and fear, a pure joy

our first trip away from the army in weeks.

They were American Friends, in a cluttered,

postered storefront, and the fleshy peeks

we’d taken left us shamed and flustered

before their devotion. Out the fly-specked window

and across the street the Alamo hunkered in dust

behind its gate. Our counselors knew the C.O.

route, would mention Canada only if they must,

and showed in their eyes a faith I

imagined as big as Texas. I could just make out

my face reflected in the window, about to cry,

a kid who knew only that he wanted out.

First, they told us the rules: you must oppose

all wars and make no distinction between

them. No matter what violence goes

on around you, you must remain passive. Even

if your father is attacked by thugs, you

must say you’d only place your mild, beatific self

between him and their blows. This is all you can do.

Here the counselors stopped, took from the shelf

the book of regs, and read the army’s loaded

catechism, and we nodded and they went on.

But maybe then we daydreamed. Already a code

our fathers knew, and the country, was broken.

I was twenty years old and could not tell

if I was a coward or a man of conviction,

didn’t know if what I feared was a private hell

or the throes of our lovely, miserable nation.