Ruptured Duck

Mitchells flying in
the black and white sky,
leather jackets sampling wooden buildings,

glenn miller records
playing in the enlisted men’s barracks,
razzmatazz jazz.

The smell inside the plane
of fuel, smoke, lubricating gun oil,
cold drafts of wind on metal seats,

the black and white dreams of back home,
a dangerous mission looms ahead
entwined in my girl’s long skirt.

Flying over Germany,
we drop the bombs
and when they explode

they look like red roses
by being careful with the thorns
sandwiched in the bombing-run.