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A. D. Winans, US
On My Way To Becoming A
Man
On my way to
Lackland Air Force Base
The train stopped to take on passengers
Giving me the chance to get off
Stretch my legs and relieve myself
On returning from the men’s room
An elderly black man approached me
Wanting to know where the restroom was
And when I pointed in the direction
Of where I had just come from
He shuffled his feet nervously
And said, “No, the colored room”
And being naive and from the North
I had no idea what he was talking about
When suddenly a woman came running
Out from behind a concession stand
Her face red with anger
Yelling for the old man
To leave me alone
As I tried in vain
To calm her down
Telling her it was all right
He was only looking for the
Men’s room
“That boy knows where the colored room is”
She said, shooing the old man away
As I boarded the train
Turning to see him
Bent over a “colored” only
Water fountain
As the train picked-up steam
Sparks flying from the tracks
Taking me on my way
To becoming a man
Where I would have
My serial number branded into
My head
And made to wear a dog tag
Around my neck
To remind me
I was the property
Of Uncle Sam
Panama Ten
Two political
prisoners were sitting
In their jeep with two
Panamanian National Guardsmen
Outside a bar in town
The two Panamanian Nationals
Went inside to check the bar
Leaving the two men
Handcuffed outside alone
Once inside the guardsmen spoke
To the bartender
In a language
I couldn’t understand
When suddenly there was an explosion
Coming from outside the bar
And without looking the
Two guardsmen laughed
And downed their tequila and beers
While outside you could see the
Flames engulf the jeep
The two prisoners lit up
Like two scarecrows
Tossed into
A bonfire
Panama
Memories
The young
Panamanian girl
Sitting alongside
Her sister dressed only
In panties and bra
Reading a comic book
And chewing on bubble gum
At a brothel called the
Teenage Club
Waiting for the first
GI’s to arrive
Six girls lined-up
Like bowling pins
Rooted to the long
Wooden bench with
Zombie like stares
Doing a woman’s thing inside
A child’s body
Returning
Home From Panama
They had this
bar at Ocean beach
Called the Chalet
It used to be a hangout for vets
The American Legion boys
Most of them fat and balding
The years piling up like litter
One so old that
He claimed he was gassed in
WW 1
You never knew whether
To believe him or not
He just sat there staring
Talking into his beer
Humming a song:
OVER HERE OVER THERE
And using terms like
Dough Boy and Pill Box
And you just somehow knew
He had to have been there
Was still there would always
Be there
*** These poems
were first published in a chapbook This Land Is Not My Land
published by Presa Press in a limited edition chapbook.
This Land Is Not My Land received a 2006 PEN Josephine
Miles Award for literary excellence.
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