Waiting for the Train
Sand in my teeth.
Gun hot in my hand.
Me and Lee crouched low
in a land that bleeds all day -
Iraq,
where the sun burns red
and the wind carries things
that never finished saying goodbye.
Bullets kiss the dirt,
hiss like they know our names.
I whisper to God,
curse Him right after.
“We’re runnin’ outta ammo,” I say.
Lee just hums that line -
like it’s stitched into him:
There’s a reason for everything.
I ain’t no poet,
but pain finds its own rhythm,
and war don’t wait
for a man to sound pretty.
I tell him about Tammie -
how she left with my kids
for another soldier,
not even my unit.
Took my boy and girl
like love was something
you could transfer on paper.
I signed up for them -
milk, heat, school supplies -
not this hole
and the ache behind my ribs
like something I swallowed wrong.
Lee nods, slow,
cradling his rifle
like it might start crying.
Says it again.
There’s a reason for everything.
It hits me wrong.
Like he’s doing math with my life.
Like this was scheduled.
For a second
I want to hit him,
not because I hate him,
but because there’s nowhere else
to put my hands.
The sky turns orange.
Voices circle us, close.
We sit there,
two shadows
hoping dawn gets here first.
And I think maybe Tammie was right.
Maybe you can’t raise a family
on promises and patches.
Maybe medals don’t keep anyone warm.
Maybe I gave everything
to a job that never learned my name.
Then the jets come.
The sky splits.
Steel rain.
The squad is gone in minutes.
After, there’s silence -
not peace,
just the place fear used to sit.
We walk back two klicks
under a dying sun.
Boots heavy.
Bodies worse.
Lee carries his rifle low,
like even it’s tired of being needed.
I spill everything -
anger, shame,
things I didn’t know I was still holding.
Tell him reasons are for chaplains and kids.
Tell him if there’s meaning out here,
it’s buried deep
and wants to stay that way.
He keeps his eyes forward.
Says it soft this time:
There’s a train for everything, man.
You just gotta wait at the station.
That does it.
I don’t want trains.
I want my kids.
I want my name back.
I want a life
that isn’t made of sand
and smoke
and what I almost was.
We reach the Humvee.
The sun drops fast,
like someone shutting a door.
Lee climbs in.
Quiet. Always quiet.
And me -
I stand there a second longer,
looking out at that wide, brutal land,
listening for something
I can’t call by name.
A train.
A reason.
Or just enough strength
to stop needing either one.
GBS jr
Saranac, NY
2009
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