In the Trenches

A few years ago, when "war fever" was high in the wake of 9/11 and we had just invaded Iraq, I wrote this poem to illustrate the dilemma some of us faced in the face of the "gung-ho" attitude that prevailed throughout the country. It was difficult being a liberal in a conservative world.

In the Trenches
Christopher Bogart

The diner was packed
On that hot summer day.
The six of us trapped
In a booth by a window,
That was frosted with tar stains,
And reeked with the smell of decay.

Our bodies reclined
On hot sticky vinyl,
Restrained by a pattern of swirling Formica,
In this red bumper car
With the bar, in this case, the aluminum edge,
Meant to wedge us in tight
As we rode out to spoil for a fight.

We were crass.
We were loud,
A hot hostile crowd
Of summer camp patriots,
Weekend warriors.
Each of us held opinions
Only conquerors hold.

We were bold.

No.

They were bold.

I was just trapped,
My legs firmly tacked.
I was held in the grip
Of mat silver duct strips,
The careless repairs
On the tears in the red plastic seats.

The boom of their voices
As they shot off their mouths,
Launched attack on attack meant
To sack and to plunder
My reasonable thunder,
And all hope of a peaceful resolve.

These testosterone tools
Of a wild war machine
Spewed out bellicose warnings
Gunned out faster and faster,
Leaving little to wonder
What weapons were left in their store.

It was there that I sat
In retreat,
In the front of a platter
Of cold Freedom fries,
Smeared all over with ketchup,
And a burger too rare
To eat or to share,
And too thick to admit defeat.

I ducked a barrage of sharpened utensils,
Knives of verbal percussion,
And a fork you, to me,
That was aimed at my heart,
An attack too smart to ignore.

As the pack howled around me,
I sat shocked and awed,
Left to ponder a death,
That would be slow and silent,
Like a spoon that’s been dropped
On the grime-stained linoleum,
Far too far from the door.


Published on Saggio Poetry Journal (www.barrierislandpress.com)