roll up, roll up

When I Am A Man

When I’m a man I want to be a soldier.
I’d like to line up to be measured
and examined by buttoned-down doctors.
I’d like all of my hair shaved off.

I’d like it if I could race my mates
by running far with a heavy pack,
and hold my breath for too long
in a tunnel flooded with rank water.

I’d like to have no private space;
to lie in rows with twenty-nine other men
and sleep only when exhausted,
mindful of snores and soap in socks.

When I’m a man I want to go to war.
I want to stand in ranks with men
whose clothes match mine,
our faces painted to match too.

I’d like it if my big, shiny boots
stomped proudly around the world
to wherever they were needed,
to kick down doors and kick ass.

Those liberated could watch our troop
walk long roads flanked by burnt cars;
a victory parade for the boys,
a thumbs up on every burnt hand.

When I am a man I’d like to ride in a convoy
of camouflaged trucks, dogtags tinkling,
the smell of burnt hair in my nostrils
as I polish my boots, and explode.


© Matthew Joseph Johnson, 2009