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Alan Dugan - Portrait From The Infantry
Work rating: Low

He smelled bad and was red-eyed with the miseries 
of being scared while sleepless when he said 
this: “I want a private woman, peace and quiet, 
and some green stuff in my pocket. Fuck 
the rest.” Pity the underwear and socks, 
long burnt, of an accomplished murderer, 
oh God, of germans and replacements, who 
refused three stripes to keep his B.A.R., 
who fought, fought not to fight some days 
like any good small businessman of war, 
and dug more holes than an outside dog 
to modify some Freudian’s thesis: “No 
man can stand three hundred days 
of fear of mutilation and death.” What he 
theorized was a joke: “To keep a tight 
asshole, dry socks and a you-deep hole 
with you at all times.” Afterwards, 
met in a sports shirt with a round wife, he was 
the clean slave of a daughter, a power brake 
and beer. To me, he seemed diminished 
in his dream, or else enlarged, who knows?, 
by its accomplishment: personal life 
wrung from mass issues in a bloody time 
and lived out hiddenly. Aside from sound 
baseball talk, his only interesting remark 
was, in pointing to his wife’s belly, “If 
he comes out left foot first” (the way 
you Forward March!), “I am going to stuff 
him back up.” “Isn’t he awful?” she said.
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