Flying West

Flying west to Southeast Asia,
Brown uniform still scratchy with sizing,
I swore
to make no friends,
no buddy to mourn when I flew east
from Southeast Asia 
in a year.


The others:
Ordered drinks in brittle voices,
Ate Kansas steaks from chipped brown trays,
Watched Rock and Doris make ersatz love,
Talked of duty sacrifice courage killing 
home
her.


Well,
I did fly back and whole
but still rage at their coltish 
love of melodrama
so easily used by the old
to their own deadly ends and
hunger to chant that passenger list,
to conjure the story of 
every body,
every buddy.