Norm Davis -------- Five Poems

Strolling

white lady
walking her white dog
black crow
beak full of something
stolen from garbage
both headed for home...
beeline

To Alan Catlin

Some poets don't have any message.
They don't have anything to say.
Their task is to say it with beauty...
and with feeling.

Fort Dix

Stationed at Fort Dix, my
father, on the way to France,
in World War One...
although they didn't call it that.
I mean they didn't call it World
               War One.
We called it World War One in
later years, and we also called
Fort Dix the Spinal Meningitis
Capitol of the world.
Dad got spinal meningitis there,
and so did Jack Kelsey.
Dad didn't make it to France.
And Jack didn't make back to
               Wellsville.
Insects, two... Wellsville zero.
An Irish, and a Taff.
Mosquitoes had the last laugh.

Carlisle

Dad was stationed at Carlisle,
the Indian school, in 1919.
He was a medic.  He went home
on a 72 hour pass, and when he
returned, half the base was down
with Spanish Influenza, so
naturally he got it.
Spanish Influenza did not have
anything to do with Spain.
It was just that Spain was a
neutral nation, and their news-
papers published the figures.
The warring nations had to keep
the figures secret...not let the
enemy know your losses.
By not sharing information, by
lack of cooperation, losses were
by far increased.  Death rode
              rampant.
It raged around the world.  One
of the greatest epidemics ever
               known.
It shouldn't have been called
the Spanish Influenza.
It should have been called The
Influenza That Wiped Out Millions
and That We Were Too Damn
Dumb To Do Anything About.

When You Come Home

When you come back,
nothing around you is real.
Sitting in The Modern Diner,
or The Texas Hot, the library,
the kitchen table at home.
The film just rolls along as
usual, like it's always done.
Nothing is out of place.  But
you're out on the flight line
with Irving, or launching your
BST with Shoemaker,  out of
the motor pool.
Jay is telling a joke, "Go back,
go back, there are two of them!"
They are having a Coke, down
in the Biltmore.  The girls are
laughing a lot.
You're turning into Area 12.
Maybe a war has started this
morning, and this is the real thing.
One can't tell the difference, and
nobody wants you to.  Your
behavior is the same, whether
it's yes or no.  Everyone hates
the Russians, even the little ones,
the children.  Communists are
like the weather.  Everyone com-
plains about them, but nobody
              does anything.
You are doing something, here at
Area 12,  picking up a unit, 4.5
megatons of radioactive TNT.
The sports fans on TV are talking
about Bobby Layne.  His injured
thumb looks like a peach pit, but
he's gonna play.  Tough guy.
Choir practice tomorrow.  Tour
starts in only two weeks.  Here
we are practicing World War III
devotedly, protecting the Sinclair
refinery at home, Philco assembly
line in Batavia, that plant in
Lockport, the father of Tim McVeigh.
Fisher Price, Kodak, French's, Stromburg-Carlson, the whole damn
               Rust Belt.
It doesn't seem real, sitting here
in the diner, hearing the laughter,
the talk.  I should be driving out
to the flight line, getting ready
                to kill.