The night my sleep failed me,
the sky was starry and filled with
coffee black pockets between.
I remember washing
away the fingerprints
of my second grade hands,
pure and harmless to
any man’s life. I was
drenched in confusion
and helplessness, but
not hopelessness. The Evening
News with Dan Rather
frightened me white. I
didn’t know war, I had
a terrible sense about
the word. It kept me
awake, pining for more
knowledge to rest
my agitated stomach.
Flashbulb photos of
Patriot missiles,
B-52’s, M-16’s, and
Stealth Bombers danced
on my brain, diving in
and out of my
trenches. Middle Eastern
sirens substituted
the usual CBS musical
intro, triggering my blood
to race impatiently through
my veins.
Just as quickly as Operation
Desert Storm came
to worry me,
the realization that
I wouldn’t be bombarded
by missiles arrived to my ears,
when my father told
me that men and women
as tough as grandpa were
overseas, fighting for
me.
