Potato Words

Potato, Patato, Tomato, Tamato
For Richie and Sam, friends I let down

At the close of World War 2
There was a boat,

The USS Indianapolis
Missioned secretly to carry

the first Atom Bomb
So secretly that no one knew

they were alive
When torpedoed returning home
Of 1,196 souls aboard

880 hands were eaten by sharks over secrecy.

The Navy concluded officially
(I shit you not) “The loss of life was directly linked
To failure of team communication….”
Like those men and the feasting sharks didn’t know?
Secrets suck. I don’t expect you to understand
What I am trying to say, you are grocery store managers
Which in honesty leaves me an old man
who needs to, understanding such things, drink at the VFW
Next to secrets? Drama sucks second worst.

Being old, I have this half ingrown gray hair
across my ass That gets easily inflamed
when it experiences hyperbole being blown at it.
Wannabe kool aid drinkers screaming “Team”
Leaves me reaching for emotional Preperation H….
It is so hard for me to sit still for such things.
When it itches I scratch stupidly.
Some I suppose would call it “Post Something Or Other”.

Yet truthfully it is not Naval Special Warfare
No one dies. It isn’t even Salvation Army Disaster Services
No one starves or is left to cold elements
It is cleaning shitters, empting bus trays, mopping floors
It is a freaking grocery store.
It is time to porter the retired hair, join the VFW
Give up email discourses
Drink with those who will understand me
And know that I am quietly right.
That’s the best I can do. A vow of classified silence.
After all, you can’t blow smoke up an ass

You’ve plugged with a boot.

But you can haul up each morning in life