Su Bao.
a wiry little fellow
shot up in the war,
almost a character from
Dr. Strangelove
and how i learned
to love the bomb.
he was a major
of some sort
from South Viet Nam.
a survivor.
he had scars all over him.
bullet holes
and knife
wounds
from when he escaped
on his raft
away from
the Viet Cong.
there was hot
shrapnel still in his
head.
which he'd tap
on occasion to mock me
and my
Billy Idol inspired hairdo.
he was about five foot
four,
perhaps the most courageous
man
i've ever met.
but a horrible boss.
i can still hear him
screaming
at me in the morning
when i
came through the door.
late of course
and hung over.
you know nothing,
he'd scream.
you lazy American, you quit
our war.
which i didn't because
i never made it out of the cub scouts.
sometimes i'd put my
ear to his office wall
and listen to him
muttering
in Vietnamese and French,
clicking madly
on his keyboard
while smoking a hundred
cigarettes and sharpening
his bayonet.
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