Poetry, Part Forty-two

As I have written, I never could conceive of a time when the ICBM's would be gone. Of the thoughts expressed in the following poem, clearly some bases were closed, some missiles removed, and some silos filled in. But not at Minot. At least not yet.

On Alert

I am unable to envision at time
(quite beyond this one, of course)
when these holes are filled.
Where will they find the dirt taken
when these were so deeply dug?
I cannot conceive of any of this abandoned;
Having a use to which no one returns
like a mine cleared of all potential.

We pass lives back and forth here
in a continuous current.
A living some day drained of our blood
and our sacrifice?
I think of the personal, the professional, investment,
and I am curious.
Will I live to see this replaced?
May I watch the workmen
as soil fills these cavities
until I am full again?

There was a beginning;
I am not to be part of the conclusion.
I do not mean any ultimate end.
No one believe these missiles would be used;
just the thought of the threat is all.

Four years on this line is not enough.
At least not yet.

I see the scars, the scratches, and the paint chipped
by other lives who shared this watch with me.
We transfer weapons:
at our sides,
at a distance,
and do not think about it much.
Why should we?
The ritual is too often for us.
We lose meaning in our years.

But sit with me.
We are sentries.
Unreasoning emotion is out there. In the darkness. Risen from the sea.
As it was beyond the Great Wall.
As it broke through the gates of Constantinople.
We are to see inside and out.
Men strengthening or weakening their resolve.

But the war is never here.
Only in the trainers back on base.
The residue remains in our minds, however,
so we cannot be taken.

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