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Semper Fi at Lunch
Jarhead was a recruiter’s filet mignon—
a strong kid who followed orders
without a facial muscle twitching,
his mind as malleable as warm clay.
Instead of eating lunch with his classmates
in the school cafeteria, Jarhead remained
in my classroom and did push-ups
on the floor beside his desk.
One day, in between sets of fifty,
he asked me why I never chose to pursue
the honorable path of serving my country.
I told him that teaching in public school
was somewhat similar to being at war,
only I didn’t wear camouflage or carry a gun.
Jarhead didn’t laugh.
Lunchtime is a little lonelier these days.
The floor remains cold where Jarhead counted reps.
Then I close my eyes, and see him in Baghdad
sniffing out a terrorist cell down a sandy backstreet,
a sniper’s bullet whizzing by his head.
Brave in the desert’s scorch, sated by blood.
Return to Volume 2.2
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