Na Trang Poem by David Watts

Na Trang

My brother straps on his webbing, his belt,
his canteen, sidearm... gone
are the colors he was—blue jeans,

white shirt, sweet potato skin—
he is so deep in camouflage
even his blue eyes

are like cinders.He climbs
to his bunker,
mushroom of concrete and divots,

ear to a short wave receiver
that sneezes facts and lies
that no one can remember,

each moment of cigarettes and coffee
possibly the last.Nothing
could have prepared him for this...

... death little more
than the morning news.
Something happened to him there.

I don't know what it was but
It taught him how to leave this life
real easy, bowing to the side

to let the train he was riding
pass on by.After that,
death was just another order to obey,

flat, like a paper command,
a switch to turn off the static
they jammed down his ear.