NEW i.d.
First day on the job alone,
he had to keep calling the sergeant.
Good-humored, she was,
joking about new machinery
that made the work harder.
Typical military we all agreed.
I voted for Bernie.
I’m all about peace,
and eliminating fossil fuels
and reducing my carbon footprint.
I drive a Prius, for Christ’s sake.
The new fighters they’ve got—
we couldn’t believe
they’d be louder than the F-4s
but they are. We can hear them
all the way from the Adirondacks.
And they’re expensive, useless.
Can’t dogfight, so what’s the point?
Three took off. We waited
for the fourth, like clockwork.
Shit, they are noisy suckers.
But fuck it. I’m a
fighter pilot’s wife.
My man used to fly machines
like those. I’ve stood on the flightline,
watched him take off,
seen him loop and hammerhead,
do the Memorial Day flyby.
I gave birth on the eve
of drill weekend, kept house
that winter he trained in Witchita
when he was DCM, that ice-storm winter
our son was in second grade
and we had a funky woodstove.
I watched my pregnant friend
watching the Missing Man
formation over her husband’s
grave. What can I say?
What can I say?
I make no apologies
for my life. Love is a funny thing.
So now this new improved i.d.
is good another three years.
We stopped on the way out the gate
to look at the old F-4
on static display.
Not Miss Piggy, my husband said.
It’s got Rich’s name on the door.
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