Last week in the field, after chow,
The quiet kid from Indiana got a letter from his wife
and slit his wrists with a P-38 army issue can opener;
That night, 50 push-ups and blood seeping through the bandages.
“You fail, you’re fucked!” yells the drill sergeant.
The sun’s slanting rays rest on the top of the pine.
“Fall in,” the voice calls;
Not moving, I dream
of different places and better times,
Of your body
breaking the sparkling surface of the pool.