Working on Septic

I don’t write poetry. I suppose I used to be able to say that. Can’t say it anymore though, because there’s this.

I went on a cruise a and met some cool people. One of them was a veteran like me.  He was a full steam ahead veteran versus my more laid back and “I could care less about being a veteran” style. This guy had cargo pants bloused neatly into combat boots, t-shirts with guns and hooah sayings on them and a nice neat haircut. He may have gotten out of the Army, but he didn’t leave it far behind. This man was the walking-talking bumper sticker of post-service, and also very kind. He noticed my tattoos and started a conversation and immediately questioned about my service.

Through the conversation, he invited me to the veterans appreciation event. I, of course, told him I would go and had absolutely NO intention of following through. I was being nice and avoiding conflict. Then, about fifteen minutes before it started,  I was walking down to my cabin to join my wife and son for a nap.  This very enthusiastic veteran bumped into me and asked me if I was headed to the military appreciation event. Not wanting to look like the liar I intended to be, I went.

I met some wonderful people and heard stories of survival, strength and heroism. The world is often full of people that are better than I ever expect them to be. Listening to them moved me, motivated me.  I felt I should share something.

I shared the ‘ahem’ poem Septic.

After reading it, every veteran in the room lined up to give me a hug.  A bunch asked for copies of it.  Then, over the next two days people offered to pay for my drinks everywhere I went. It was the first time I could see how what I wrote would affect others.

Here is a reading of the poem below.

 

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