Blood Behind the First Company Reunion
Flashes of Korea
slept for fifteen years
till Joe Tedesco phoned
to split some wonder
between my wife and me.
He Ping-Ponged bits,
until reunion
screwed some sense back in
for me to drive somewhere
beneath June's leafy sleeves.
Arteries wound us down to veins.
A town house
struck my wife and me inside its view,
pulling us out of line
to circle around and motor in.
Handles released from lots
of parking spilled old vets
clasping me inside their heads
unseen for years.
Thinning grayness
mingled with steins and balding laughter.
We lean toward Army tales
foaming near the yawning of our wives
sniffing beef smoking close
to flame-thrown men.
Finally tabled in, well dug in—
to cuts of running blood,
we turn from shoulder taps,
splashed with grins
about a barrel of Sergeant Joe,
leader of our patrol.
His hand withdraws
not quite a gun
but smoothness from the sterling
in a flask
he waves while sucking in a cigar.
Though he rocks us in and out of gooky jokes
unfunny even then, we sparkle
near the winces of our wives.
Smoking through unscrewing,
Joe tables midget cups for silent shots.
Pouring, he drains the pint to drops of two
that cling like bashful blood.
Toasting near his gushing health
leaves us vague about his job.
The sherry scrapes like sand,
squinting back our thoughts
of re-Ridged men.
We weave through faces
shaping into slumps of speechless flab,
blankets of swallowed men—
gripping ends—
pocketbooks of stillness
lifted into humming trucks
inside the day
for final drives inside the night.
Hollow
is the speaker for desert,
standing near Joe's heart.
Tossing bits of basic
through our cake,
he cuts himself
a little short because of laughter
in the hall.
Echoes of the dead
keep sweating us back to wonder
why we came
we aren't sure,
except to search for parts
we left behind.
At last a batch of us
slips out
for streaming in the head
near "Who's the knockers?"
hanging out in blue
around this someplace club? unzips Joe.
Toasting her with his stein,
he edges it on the sink.
No one knows,
although, reflying,
Joe is almost raptured
rushing off her clothes inside his mind.
Half-steined, he points us out
to follow.
We bend beside his mouth
because the brain,
already soaked in beer,
obeys like years before.
We almost march behind his bark
which fits us in the bar
for rounds of what we aren't sure.
Bottles behind the maid
line up like upright men.
The pickup band above
is shaking hands
because they never met
themselves before,
like many of us
at Heartbreak Ridge.
Joe had chattered up that Ridge
like some of us, he boasts,
but "panicked down"
never jells
between his alcoholic breath.
Nor that he left back
Harry and Jack to die
he covered with a lie
back then and even now.
A salesman of insurance,
finally clatters Joe about himself,
exploding in our minds why brokers
pitched inside the banquet room before.
Joe's been lobbing duds
inside our ears for sales!
straightens out the reunion's sense,
boiling shots inside.
About Joe's plan
to build some sofa talk with our wives
beyond insurance while we work,
if face becomes the voice,
he never says, of course.
But wives' complaints when called alone
before we left that June, soaks through.
The blue wife struts inside, cleave first,
which Joe leans back to toast
through glass
higher than before.
He turns to flag the maid
too busy flirting with the band
about another round.
Someone taps me with
"Joe looks lost inside them hills,"
then passes chips
beneath Joe's smoke.
More ego flows
between Joe's tobacco teeth.
His tales are pretzel-tough,
about his strength to squeeze a trigger
hard enough to melt
his barrel which he finally drops
to smoke some grass,
which burns me even more.
"And still they came,"
he spits, till tapping
pulls our eyes to spy
his match's cartwheels
on the foggy bar.
Joe collects our heads
to find his point inside a whisper
tilting our retrenched ears.
But holding on to bar ourselves,
we catch no more
about the war,
just plans to knuckle down
our doors to cover us
against our dying
because he loves us
more than never
can he find the words, he says.
But what about the pair
named Harry and Jack
the war
and left too grave
we never learned until too late?
we think while nodding about his clever pitch.
Will further coverage
toss Joe back to Harry and Jack?
reflects some of us.
Trembling down the Ridge to meet us,
Joe had mumbled, "Harry's gone.
So is Jack."
Joe hadn't known we knew he lied
halfway, like now.
We should have squeezed him then
like now he's squeezing us—
insuring us from what?
we cry inside.
Aren't we already dead
from raising back the dead?
"Take us back to Harry and Jack,"
this knot had cracked to Joe
who lost the track, he swore,
then spat "Gooks got both."
Nor had we rank or spunk enough
to turn his yellow head in.
A shadow
close to dusk across the Ridge
was Harry carry-
ing Jack on back,
we still recall
inside our sights along the barrels
of our shots now lined up
near showcase glass.
Yards away from camp,
Jack had dropped his Harry sack
before our gasps.
Jack had fallen next,
though not before he splat
his love for Joe
still lying,
tented from some pain
about a sprain, was still another lie.
Further pressed about that day,
Joe breaks off with
"Jack and Harry who?"
"Jesus," jerks our hearts.
Pinball bowling rolls our eyes
along the shadowed wall
until the shot.
Scattered pins pile up
like punctured men.
We eat Joe's face
about to tilt another sip
when polka grips the band.
Joe's wife invades our line,
pulls his wing to prance along
the teardrop floor,
and then again
until he pawns her into John, the cook,
who isn't sure at first
because he's not as thick as she.
Reviewed, Joe veers off
to blast rebellious youth,
then Commies everywhere in nooks.
Down he quiets to wipe his mouth
is like a gun, we almost puke
because he points it back
to curse the Ridge,
tightening our heads
since Harry and Jack
are still inside.
Corporeal Benson almost lobs
a question in his ear,
but Joe keeps firing,
"As I was saying,"
jingling change
inside his one grand suit.
We know he finally knows we know
he dangled Jack with Harry
in elephant grass.
And yet he coughs us into buying rounds
with snappy, liquid talk
about insurance past our dying
so he can double-deck his ranch,
he doesn't say,
then curses Uncle Sam
who never underwrites enough
for quality men like us.
Before he fell against our rubber arms and ribs,
Jack had choked,
"I begged Joe, help us, bleeding, back,"
we almost shriek
but hide behind Joe's rambling mouth
because our minds are into spirits
mixed with blood.
No hero lunges from the group.
We even walk Joe to his Ford,
with less insurance
that he won't pitch our wives
to cover themselves the day he comes
when we're not home.
He'll also jack us into more
than we can afford or need
but never enough to carry Jack
or Harry back.
slept for fifteen years
till Joe Tedesco phoned
to split some wonder
between my wife and me.
He Ping-Ponged bits,
until reunion
screwed some sense back in
for me to drive somewhere
beneath June's leafy sleeves.
Arteries wound us down to veins.
A town house
struck my wife and me inside its view,
pulling us out of line
to circle around and motor in.
Handles released from lots
of parking spilled old vets
clasping me inside their heads
unseen for years.
Thinning grayness
mingled with steins and balding laughter.
We lean toward Army tales
foaming near the yawning of our wives
sniffing beef smoking close
to flame-thrown men.
Finally tabled in, well dug in—
to cuts of running blood,
we turn from shoulder taps,
splashed with grins
about a barrel of Sergeant Joe,
leader of our patrol.
His hand withdraws
not quite a gun
but smoothness from the sterling
in a flask
he waves while sucking in a cigar.
Though he rocks us in and out of gooky jokes
unfunny even then, we sparkle
near the winces of our wives.
Smoking through unscrewing,
Joe tables midget cups for silent shots.
Pouring, he drains the pint to drops of two
that cling like bashful blood.
Toasting near his gushing health
leaves us vague about his job.
The sherry scrapes like sand,
squinting back our thoughts
of re-Ridged men.
We weave through faces
shaping into slumps of speechless flab,
blankets of swallowed men—
gripping ends—
pocketbooks of stillness
lifted into humming trucks
inside the day
for final drives inside the night.
Hollow
is the speaker for desert,
standing near Joe's heart.
Tossing bits of basic
through our cake,
he cuts himself
a little short because of laughter
in the hall.
Echoes of the dead
keep sweating us back to wonder
why we came
we aren't sure,
except to search for parts
we left behind.
At last a batch of us
slips out
for streaming in the head
near "Who's the knockers?"
hanging out in blue
around this someplace club? unzips Joe.
Toasting her with his stein,
he edges it on the sink.
No one knows,
although, reflying,
Joe is almost raptured
rushing off her clothes inside his mind.
Half-steined, he points us out
to follow.
We bend beside his mouth
because the brain,
already soaked in beer,
obeys like years before.
We almost march behind his bark
which fits us in the bar
for rounds of what we aren't sure.
Bottles behind the maid
line up like upright men.
The pickup band above
is shaking hands
because they never met
themselves before,
like many of us
at Heartbreak Ridge.
Joe had chattered up that Ridge
like some of us, he boasts,
but "panicked down"
never jells
between his alcoholic breath.
Nor that he left back
Harry and Jack to die
he covered with a lie
back then and even now.
A salesman of insurance,
finally clatters Joe about himself,
exploding in our minds why brokers
pitched inside the banquet room before.
Joe's been lobbing duds
inside our ears for sales!
straightens out the reunion's sense,
boiling shots inside.
About Joe's plan
to build some sofa talk with our wives
beyond insurance while we work,
if face becomes the voice,
he never says, of course.
But wives' complaints when called alone
before we left that June, soaks through.
The blue wife struts inside, cleave first,
which Joe leans back to toast
through glass
higher than before.
He turns to flag the maid
too busy flirting with the band
about another round.
Someone taps me with
"Joe looks lost inside them hills,"
then passes chips
beneath Joe's smoke.
More ego flows
between Joe's tobacco teeth.
His tales are pretzel-tough,
about his strength to squeeze a trigger
hard enough to melt
his barrel which he finally drops
to smoke some grass,
which burns me even more.
"And still they came,"
he spits, till tapping
pulls our eyes to spy
his match's cartwheels
on the foggy bar.
Joe collects our heads
to find his point inside a whisper
tilting our retrenched ears.
But holding on to bar ourselves,
we catch no more
about the war,
just plans to knuckle down
our doors to cover us
against our dying
because he loves us
more than never
can he find the words, he says.
But what about the pair
named Harry and Jack
the war
and left too grave
we never learned until too late?
we think while nodding about his clever pitch.
Will further coverage
toss Joe back to Harry and Jack?
reflects some of us.
Trembling down the Ridge to meet us,
Joe had mumbled, "Harry's gone.
So is Jack."
Joe hadn't known we knew he lied
halfway, like now.
We should have squeezed him then
like now he's squeezing us—
insuring us from what?
we cry inside.
Aren't we already dead
from raising back the dead?
"Take us back to Harry and Jack,"
this knot had cracked to Joe
who lost the track, he swore,
then spat "Gooks got both."
Nor had we rank or spunk enough
to turn his yellow head in.
A shadow
close to dusk across the Ridge
was Harry carry-
ing Jack on back,
we still recall
inside our sights along the barrels
of our shots now lined up
near showcase glass.
Yards away from camp,
Jack had dropped his Harry sack
before our gasps.
Jack had fallen next,
though not before he splat
his love for Joe
still lying,
tented from some pain
about a sprain, was still another lie.
Further pressed about that day,
Joe breaks off with
"Jack and Harry who?"
"Jesus," jerks our hearts.
Pinball bowling rolls our eyes
along the shadowed wall
until the shot.
Scattered pins pile up
like punctured men.
We eat Joe's face
about to tilt another sip
when polka grips the band.
Joe's wife invades our line,
pulls his wing to prance along
the teardrop floor,
and then again
until he pawns her into John, the cook,
who isn't sure at first
because he's not as thick as she.
Reviewed, Joe veers off
to blast rebellious youth,
then Commies everywhere in nooks.
Down he quiets to wipe his mouth
is like a gun, we almost puke
because he points it back
to curse the Ridge,
tightening our heads
since Harry and Jack
are still inside.
Corporeal Benson almost lobs
a question in his ear,
but Joe keeps firing,
"As I was saying,"
jingling change
inside his one grand suit.
We know he finally knows we know
he dangled Jack with Harry
in elephant grass.
And yet he coughs us into buying rounds
with snappy, liquid talk
about insurance past our dying
so he can double-deck his ranch,
he doesn't say,
then curses Uncle Sam
who never underwrites enough
for quality men like us.
Before he fell against our rubber arms and ribs,
Jack had choked,
"I begged Joe, help us, bleeding, back,"
we almost shriek
but hide behind Joe's rambling mouth
because our minds are into spirits
mixed with blood.
No hero lunges from the group.
We even walk Joe to his Ford,
with less insurance
that he won't pitch our wives
to cover themselves the day he comes
when we're not home.
He'll also jack us into more
than we can afford or need
but never enough to carry Jack
or Harry back.
