Taking a Trip to London
"Taking a trip to London,"
slang for a gin & tonic with beer chaser
Dan's Bread and Butter Bar, Hotel Alley, Phạm Ngũ Lão.
September 2012, Year of the Water Dragon,
street cleaners in dirty orange clothing
sweep debris into piles, shovel into handcarts.
I'm two trips down, more on the way,
Danish friend sad, talks about conditions local hospital,
not enough beds, two people each,
hall floors lined with other patients.
They're the poor, the bottom of the garbage pile,
nowhere left to sweep them.
Memories unsolicited intrude: NVA summer offensive,
August 1968, Year of the Monkey.
Tet encore, last hurrah for big-nosed barbarians,
troop withdrawals shortly thereafter.
M.A.S.H. unit, D Company, 1st Medical Battalion,
row of mildewy tents, GP large, eighteen by fifty-two feet,
one for surgery, others for the wounded.
Guaranteed-to-ruin-your-back canvas cots
reserved for the more serious cases,
moderately wounded on wooden floor,
everyone else on ground outside.
Shrapnel through groin and right buttock,
unable to lie on back or side,
I'm on my stomach passing time counting shrapnel wounds,
Master Sergeant next cot over. One hundred and thirty-two.
No trips to London for us, major offensive,
mass casualties, medical evacuation system overflowing,
no broom big enough.
by Founding Poet Paul Hellweg Copyright © 2016
VWP 2016 First published in Gargoyle #64 2016
"Taking a trip to London,"
slang for a gin & tonic with beer chaser
Dan's Bread and Butter Bar, Hotel Alley, Phạm Ngũ Lão.
September 2012, Year of the Water Dragon,
street cleaners in dirty orange clothing
sweep debris into piles, shovel into handcarts.
I'm two trips down, more on the way,
Danish friend sad, talks about conditions local hospital,
not enough beds, two people each,
hall floors lined with other patients.
They're the poor, the bottom of the garbage pile,
nowhere left to sweep them.
Memories unsolicited intrude: NVA summer offensive,
August 1968, Year of the Monkey.
Tet encore, last hurrah for big-nosed barbarians,
troop withdrawals shortly thereafter.
M.A.S.H. unit, D Company, 1st Medical Battalion,
row of mildewy tents, GP large, eighteen by fifty-two feet,
one for surgery, others for the wounded.
Guaranteed-to-ruin-your-back canvas cots
reserved for the more serious cases,
moderately wounded on wooden floor,
everyone else on ground outside.
Shrapnel through groin and right buttock,
unable to lie on back or side,
I'm on my stomach passing time counting shrapnel wounds,
Master Sergeant next cot over. One hundred and thirty-two.
No trips to London for us, major offensive,
mass casualties, medical evacuation system overflowing,
no broom big enough.
by Founding Poet Paul Hellweg Copyright © 2016
VWP 2016 First published in Gargoyle #64 2016
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For more info, please see his bio on the About Us page and on his Bio / War Poetry page.
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