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Blood Poisoning v3

 

Blood Poisoning



JFK and Jackie are in the news,

game show hosts and soaps, 

but without the Maytags and Mercuries,

their profiles of luck, success and beauty 

beyond what boys could achieve

or girls imagine.


We catch a scent of distant threat

and hunker under desks 

and hear about oriental dominoes 

and missiles south of Miami.  


Every May a repurposed army truck

rumbles down South Street 

with a monster fan mounted on its cab

waving back and forth, 

blowing storms of DDT into elm trees

in a failing war against the gypsy moth. 


We run alongside and it was an early Fourth of July, 

especially when we heard the sonic booms 

of F4 Phantom jets streaking toward a MIG-free coast.  


I still see planes crashing in my dreams.


The dads, the uncles, the village cop,

the Boy Scouts’ Sergeant Major,  

the Peyton Place-exile guidance counselor 

the pastor and the priest

all have much to say.  

 

We are only certain 

that guts are required  

for the expected charge at dominance. 

In season - soccer, deer, basketball,

the sweat, the musk and the aggression, 

the blood, the bruises and the exhaustion 

damp it for a time.


But in summer two boys face off side by side 

elbows cocked, forearms aligned left by right, 

while a friend sucks on a Camel or a Kool 

then drops it in the valley between their arms, 

and the stink of burning hair rises 

and the red coal sinks through ash 

and flesh until the loser yanks away 

to the laughter of the small town boys,

one who will soon be burning in Vietnam  

and another, returning with 

fake ID and Genesee from The Manor,

will sail through his windshield 

taking with him

the blinded bravado of youth.

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