.Poor Worm! Thou Art Infected!
"I wrote this while smoking a La Gloria Cubana Wavel.
It’s my birthday today.
I have no cake. I have no candles. I don’t want to be around anybody.
I sit smoking in the dark on my porch. It is 0300 and it is cool outside. My laptop is open.
I hear it before I see it.
A quiet rumbling starts in the south. The sound approaches. A convoy draws near. By a sick twist of fate, my building overlooks The Road. I see convoys come and go all day, a constant reminder that I will never again leave The Little FOB for anything more important than a fuel run. I should consider myself lucky. Not every man gets to open his window in the morning and see his disappointment every day.
The trucks roll north. A heavily armored MRAP rolls past, looking like a vehicle prop from a long-forgotten apocalyptic movie. The tractor trailers follow. One, two, three, fourteen, fifteen, sixteen. Another MRAP moves past, followed by more tractor trailers. I lose count. Is it forty? Is it eighty?"
Big Tabacco
It’s my birthday today.
I have no cake. I have no candles. I don’t want to be around anybody.
I sit smoking in the dark on my porch. It is 0300 and it is cool outside. My laptop is open.
I hear it before I see it.
A quiet rumbling starts in the south. The sound approaches. A convoy draws near. By a sick twist of fate, my building overlooks The Road. I see convoys come and go all day, a constant reminder that I will never again leave The Little FOB for anything more important than a fuel run. I should consider myself lucky. Not every man gets to open his window in the morning and see his disappointment every day.
The trucks roll north. A heavily armored MRAP rolls past, looking like a vehicle prop from a long-forgotten apocalyptic movie. The tractor trailers follow. One, two, three, fourteen, fifteen, sixteen. Another MRAP moves past, followed by more tractor trailers. I lose count. Is it forty? Is it eighty?"
Big Tabacco
posted by madtom at 10:14 PM
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