Ghazal of Mass Destruction
Dennis Mahagin

The jumpy grunts humped for months, puking up their K-rat grits in
Pre-dawn latrine ditches when it hit a hundred-fourteen at half past six.
Heat-shimmer made Marines hallucinate the ribbed chromium necks of
Drippy canteens into diesel dreg nozzles from the Esso back home in Sticks.
General Franks, going freaky in computer turret of Bradley tank—gets
Caught with heavy hands on infrared, as if dialing up crude arrowheads
on an Etch A Sketch.
For all the hindsight critics, Tommy shakes his blistered fist—“In
Time we’d find them, bitch!…”  
Wherefore cry Wolf in this Bait N’ Switch?

Twilight brought flares and smoke nooses, cordite from a cap gun, at
Midnight a pick-axe tripped Claymore mine, gusher of blue blood-guts
set the search
for Big One back—but
only for a tiny bit
of time.