Poetry, Part Thirty-two

The following poem was initially written about the Vietnam War. But when the war was over for the U.S. and our forces withdrew and I was stationed in Minot, I changed it to be about the B-52's based there.

Jon was a navigator whom I knew in the BOQ who, with his first Betamax, patiently taped all of the Mary Tyler Moore episodes.

I suppose I am as equally surprised that the B-52's are still around as I am about the missile silos and LCF's still being in place.

5th Bombardment Wing, Strategic Air Command, Minot AFB

For Jon

We never think it odd to find an aerie
on seemingly strange low ground;
concrete hard and man infested,
our nature to adapt outraces all terms applied.

The steel breasted brutes within the fences
move like patient cripples on rolling stumps,
determined, as always, to fight their way back to flight--
a programmed escalation when they rise
toward a distant, highly silent search for prey.

As with other atmospheric forces
of a short flash superiority,
each boasts of claws that crush
yet cannot grasp its victims.

Still they will toss their talons down
until they are no more,
as if caught by some age-old fault with creation.
And so it is with most mutations,
once twisted into unfulfilling predators,
destruction's origin ceases before its objective.

The blasts will themselves be shaken off.
And soon enough along time, earth recovers,
targets resurrect,
and whatever remembers,
forgets the once bombing force from the far air blue,
the B-52's.

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