A poem about R&R
in an old green duffle,
Smelling of mold and dampness.
wrinkled beyond belief,
Hang loosely on my anxious body.
Conversations on the plane,
subdued, joyful, hopeful.
As we near our fabled destination,
expectation hushes the chatter.
The long awaited moment arrives.
Walking along city streets
instead of jungle trails.
Looking forward to nightfall
rather than fearing its dangers.
For once morning comes too soon.
Social graces too long unused,
seem awkward and strange.
Polite conversation an awkward task,
so suddenly in female company.
Feeling the shyness of renewed innocence.
Six days flash by,
blurred by sleep, drink and frenzy.
Never quite fitting in, always insecure,
memories of fantasies unfulfilled.
Relieved at being on the way back.
A plane filled with cautious voices,
a sense of tense expectation.
Those so recently care free,
sit back with eyes closed.
Thinking up lies to tell our brothers.
Back again in faded fatigues,
civvies once again packed away.
Driving down a dusty road,
watchful eyes on the countryside.
The undeniable feeling of being home.
Sitting in the dark of the night,
telling tales of love’s delight.
Spinning yarns and tall stories,
of drink, food and loving ladies.
Falling asleep, wishing they were true.