THE STRATOCASTER

They wanted me to fight
the war in Asia, had me wandering
a big breezy hall in downtown Oakland,
prodded and pushed like cattle. In the room
with the flag I said No.
My lone voice was an echo
of the NoNo Boys of the WWII camps,
the last good war they wouldn’t fight
for being behind barbed wire. 
All I wanted was to play my Stratocaster.
I had won it in a poetry game, just dumb luck
that someone wanted to match poems with me.
In those days I was fast.
If I had gone to fight in the jungle
the Strat would have stayed under my bed,
I wouldn’t have taken it.
I would have left it home with the girl
I met in school, daring us both to live through
enough pages that the story would pick up
once again where we left off. Amazingly it did!
Who writes these things? A professional writer
would be embarrassed to use such contrived
plot device, but God has no shame, no anger,
no fear, no pride. God pretty much lets it rip,
content to watch us wail or curse or kill each other.
There are reasons for this
only God or bodhisattvas can know.
While we wait for cards, curious where
they will send us.

1/10/2016