I got to the scene and wouldn’t you know,
there were people about, watching the show.
Squinting eyes under clammy palm,
I can just about see it.
A swallow.
A circle clears around me,
tainted by people’s realization of the role I am to play.
Unclean.
A hush.
Mine are the legs of a broken man.
The first step on the sand is a half-trip.
Drill Sergeant Duty barks in my ear:
“Get on with it son!”
While Compassion is left dry-heaving,
haunted eyes on the shore.
When I reached him, he was
half floating
hair fanning, like
hopeful fingers reaching for a
honeyed future.
I squat.
My shoes sink in sympathy and sodden sand.
My hands reach
Uniform baptized
I cradle him.
Skin puffy with salt
my teeth grit as my throat is assaulted
by the sickly coating of stench.
For him, I stand.
Valkyries do not ride for children who drown at sea,
but I carried him with professionalism and dignity.
Later, I went home, kissed my wife,
put my uniform in the wash.
Kissed my kids good night.
I stood under the shower for an hour and a half
scrubbing and soaping, but still got a waft
of wasted life every now and then.
Went to bed and tried to sleep knowing
tomorrow
I’ll do it all over again
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