number eleven

it was a long

drive

to Baltimore but my number

had come up

for the draft.

the bouncing ball

said eleven when it shot

out of the tube.

i had hair past

my shoulders and weighed

nothing

soaking wet.

i wasn't made

for the army,

for killing, for whatever

it was they wanted

me to do while

wearing

their drabby green uniforms,

would i be sharpening

my bayonet,

peeling potatoes too?

i stripped

and bent over, i coughed.

they looked

in every opening

of my young body

and asked me

questions about my loyalty

to the country.

was i red white and blue?

luckily the war ended

before i had

to kill someone,

or be killed

in a jungle far from you.