FORTUNATE SON

by R.B. Morgan

When I see in a mirror,
Whatever stares back
Is my own sick disaster.
I am drunk and write a letter
To the kid who
Will remember:
Here's your chance, boy,
Come slay the dragon.
Your loving father,
Semper fi.

Months down the road I get:
Don't tempt me you
Worthless mutherfucker.
Diyala is heaven
Compared to you.
Don't write me no more.
I'm shipping out for my 3rd tour.

He's the one who always gets me.
I'm laughing and high.
Takes time to strike blood
In a withered vein.
He's gulping forties,
Paying mean money
For meaner pussy,
Staff Sergeant Aye-Aye,
Most rikky-tik, chop-chop you faggots,
Living the life in the USMC.

He's got the humor,
And close to the laughter,
The kind trapped in jails or
Strapped down in locked wards.
I gave him those;
A couple of back hands.
Shit.
Don't remember.
There must have been more.

But I know my boy, his bent
Sense of duty.
He was the kid,
Just used to slay me.
I'm laughing my guts out.
He'll get me back,
Don't worry.
He was locked on
To me
The day he was born.