Draftee

Snatched from my nest,
shorn of hair, stripped
of jeans and hoodie,
and my love of fellow man.
All self reduced to
a name tape on my chest,
and a stencil on my duffel.
I learned the function
of my rifle, of a squad,
of a platoon, a company,
and the meaning of rank.
“Irish Pennants” make sergeants mad.
Circle toe right and about face.
Fists clenched, thumbs forward.
Butt tucked, chest out, feet at 45.
Left. Step off with my left.
It all makes sense, to somebody.
Jump without hesitation,
kill without qualm,
I was young and dumb,
when the draft call came.
And now, I am only angry,
and old.