War Poet.ca - A CFAP Project by Suzanne Steele

from notebook #4 KAF (Wainwright) Day 1



Wooden bench. My ass is sore. I sit
in the TOC. Wait for C Company’s boys
to take me. Flacked, helmeted. Outside the wire.
From wooden floors. Canvas tents. Slamming doors.
From flats of water stacked. The red hot Major.
From pencils. Pens. Rolled maps and laptops.
War plans. Radios. Intel spread like jam
over the plastic table. Coffee that sucks.
(Refill? Real milk. In the fridge. Deluxe).
To grit. In eyes and hair and socks. Prairie gusts.
Skin sun-fucked. And noses stuffed from too much
cigarette smoke, diesel fumes and heavy metal.
To sleep dep. Night watch. The prairie moon.
Ramp down. Cpl. yelling, Let’s go. Let’s go. Let’s go.



About This Page

The page you're reading contains a single diary entry entitled from notebook #4 KAF (Wainwright) Day 1. It was posted here on March 24, 2009.

·

Complete diary archive