Discharge - Derek Wilson, illustrator

Discharge

Sitting in the back of a Greyhound bus,

you find out who you are without orders.

Without family meeting you there to fuss,

you get dismissed last. At o dark thirty

you might sleep, but you can’t, and there’s no rush.

Two hundred miles to Brookings. Forty more

to Cairn Station. And then you walk a mile

to the house and whoever you find there,

strapped for cash, fast asleep and unable

to meet you, hug you, tell you where to toss

your reeking, desert-dusted duffel bag.

You drive to McDonalds, and then you give

the orders: Big Mac, Coke, side of Kabul.

You’ve choppered, jeeped, flown, bussed, walked and driven

for two all-beef patties in the free world,

and in the world, water-tight as a sieve,

gonna have to figure out how to live.