Airplane of greens, browns, and dark gray,
Camouflaged to hide it in the woods,
But it sits nested on hot concrete.
Its mouth gapped to drive in trucks.

Pack it snug with wooden pallets.

Life’s supplies tightly shrink-wrapped,

Field equipment and chemical gear,

Even mail for the men already there.

He heard the squeal of bus air brakes.

Such a fair gesture for the press.

They had promised that it might be so—

A last good-bye for all of them.

Then she stood upon the steps.

She was the second one off the bus.

Peach colored sundress flapping her thighs,

Silky long-dark hair waving at him.

He tried to ignore the tears on her cheeks.

He told her, “Baby, it will be just fine.”

Then he promised to come home to her.

That he would stay next time.

He knew he was telling the truth.

Who could leave a woman so fine?

He pressed his mouth to crush her lips,

Then turned to leave her behind.

The troops were all ready to go,

As they quietly sat in their seats.

No one spoke of the ones they loved—

Kisses seared . . .
With the bird’s thunderous rumble.

By Nette Hyatt

Part of a collection of poetry by Nette Hyatt

No Make-up But Lipstick
Rhyme, Stanza, and Doggerel

For the Literary Incorrect