ankle deep in the mud
of a malarial peanut farm
scraped from ancient jungle
now rome plowed clear,
agent oranged,
poisoned, defoliated deep,
the division troops,
the 11-bravos, ‘grunts’
are tented in fetid favelas
of rotting surplus canvas
from korea, world war two,
(now blue hazed in mary jane)
to endure beyond combat
the heat, the bugs, the rats,
the endless monsoon
and the most inelegant
mess chow mélange
slung to steel trays
by much better fed,
sloven, sweat-soaked
sous chefs du jour
in the commanding
general’s mess
nestled in officer country’s
manicured, suburban
emerald otherworld
of putting green lawns
and air conditioned luxury
command staff trailers,
privacy fenced and gated,
guarded against the envy
and anger of their own troops,
obsequious white smocked
young soldiers bow and serve
at white linened tables,
the lobster, shrimp,
filet mignon, prime rib,
and cabernet, then light cigars
for the general and his staff,
fresh from the social stress
and bourboned branch
of the pre-meal open bar
the general’s waitstaff,
chosen from among
his troops in the field
found to have performed
meritoriously and
deemed most worthy
of his boon reward assigned
as favored staff garçons,
replace departed predecessors,
out of favor late unworthies,
who have displeased,
or just not measured up
to command expectations
as proper table servants
and been banished back,
re-condemned to combat units
where their punishment,
up to and including
even death itself,
will be delivered by
the unhampered enemy
First published in VietnamWarPoetry.com 2016
© John Buquoi 2016 Reproduced with kind permission of the author