Six-Month Wonder

They called us six- month wonders:

Guys who enlisted in the National Guard for only six months of active duty— far better, we thought, than being drafted for two years. (It was 1964 and the draft was In full swing.)

I was a pathetic soldier—my fumbling fingers couldn’t even disassemble my rifle for cleaning, or assemble it for shooting.

Fortunately, my bunkmate was having girlfriend troubles and we struck a deal:

He would take care of my rifle and I would ghost-write romantic letters to his girl.

The only other highlight of my otherwise miserable six months, was concepting a cartoon for the Army newspaper with Terry Gilliam, later of Monty Python and film-making fame.

It showed a private about to get his revenge on a sadistic sergeant, gleefully administering typhoid shots with a giant inoculation gun to a platoon of scared-ass recruits.

The cartoon was posted on the lockers of just about every recruit in the company.

And for a minute, I felt like a hero.

My Father Striking Matches Deep into the Night 

My father is striking matches

deep into the night,

teaching my fumbling

fingers to light a match

so I can ignite

a Bunsen burner

in Mr. Straub’s

seventh grade science lab

just like  every other kid

in the goddamn class,

some of them snickering

behind my back.

But then my numbskull

fingers

have failed me forever:

Assembling toy airplanes,

hopelessly fiddling with

Lois Finklestein’s bra

just when things

were heating up—

Fuck, these days even

buttons

get the better of them.

But at least they’re prehensile,

so I can pick up

a good book

or wrap them around an extra-

dry Belvedere martini,

even text a handyman

now that my father is gone.