Between the screen door and kitchen
The spiraling flypaper turns
Slow in a draft that scratches
The calendar over the plaster.
Pickles and pigs’ feet and beer
Empty Coke bottles in racks
On a shelf Virginia Dare.
The talk in snatches.
Three corporals in boots and khakis
Sit low in a booth that totters
Wait out the long Sunday tedium
Discuss the sergeant’s daughters.
Two cigarettes to one beer,
Eleven rounds in four hours.
A suggestion to lower neckties
Is made, is passed, then sours.
A Mexican asks for cerveza from
The waitress who checks with the boss.
“Beer, you mean?” “Como no, sixpack Dixie.”
Somewho is whistling The Old Rugged Cross.
Three corporals from somewhere in khakis
Wondering where are the long-legged girls
Watch the flypaper maneuver
In leisurely unmilitary whirls.