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The Old Picture (poem)

By Horace Coleman

In am unparalleled universe,
in an old war in an old corps,
below the Delta and Can Tho, Soc Trang, Bac Lieu,
east of the U Minh forest the Viet Minh never left,
north of the Swift Boats,
well west of the prison floating on a river,
clouds reflect the South China Sea onto Ca Mau
and the same same named peninsula.

The province chief doesn't allow
fighting on his plantation.
Monsoon night rat hunts fill
junior officers' empty time.
Local whores souvenir GIs with diseases.
The Vietnamese supplied water flows
sporadically to the compound--on purpose.
We keep filled 50-gallon barrels and empty
#10 cans by toilets to flush the blues away.

Hootch maids shine boots, wash and iron.
The mess hall workers season food with bugs.
It's plush for Nam and quite calm.
There's a Free Fun Zone
every where the town kids are.
They don't worry about ARVN or
VC interrogators and press gangs--yet.

Bored as a spoiled child,
guilty as a drunk,
I transfer out.

What ever happened to them?
What ever happened to us?
Some of them grew up.
Some of us got older.

Most lived in incensed times.

– Horace Coleman

(Originally published in Atlantic Pacific Press, Vol 3, No. 3)