Booking out blues

On some weekends
the army follows you out of camp,
rather like an unpleasant memory
or a minor hangover.

I couldn’t write this afternoon
even though I had the time.
Even though I didn’t need to book-in
for another twenty-three hours.

Despite my best efforts,
my mind remained cluttered with the
jumbled-up thoughts of a week spent in camp;
disorganised mental rubble,
twisting and overgrown vines that made
any attempt at directed thought
painfully pointless.

All I could think of was how tired I was,
how little I’d slept, and how my shoulders ached
from carrying that ridiculously heavy SBO
(the contents of which remind me of
Christmas tree ornaments).

I knew that the best thing to do
would have been to put down my pen
and let a good night’s rest clear my mind.
But I chose,
stubborn as ever,
to write this poem and not
let the army win again.



- 30 March 2008