You give away your last cigarette to a classmate, your last bite
of cheesesteak hoagie to a grubbing officer. You’re the first

to volunteer to GI the latrine, offer your help in the unmanly arts
of sewing on a button, ironing a pair of trousers. We call you Tool.

We smear toothpaste on your brass and spit-shines, short-sheet your bed
so your feet only make it midway down the mattress, fill your pillow

with shaving cream. We line up at the window when your girl parks
behind our barracks and you lock yourself in her Nash Rambler for hours.

Joke about the fogged glass, how you don’t know what hole to stick it in.
We implement the principles of war: objective, offensive, surprise; deploy

a commando team with cameras. Four cadets in camouflage fatigues
circle the Rambler; the explosion of light, pumped fists, pats on the back.

Long after “Taps,” we lay with our eyes closed, sleep eluding us, thinking of you
and your girl, blinded by the flashes, hugging each other, tighter and tighter.