Word blindness left the boy under the bed.
They said it. Bombs. Whiz-bang. Woolly Bear.
Shell Shock. There was no other word for it,
for what the boy suffered.
Literal shell shock.
Because the doctor could talk about the weather,
the food, music, French wine, women's thighs,
and the boy would stare blankly.
Bombs.
And under the bed he dove, cowering and
waiting for the world to drop out from under him.
Or on top of him, I suppose.
Wanting to go home, get out of the trenches,
wash the blood of his pals from his clothes,
and sleep in his own bed.
Private Preston was 19 years old,
but he had only one word left to him
after two decades on this planet.
He crawls out from under the bed,
and on his hands and knees
scans the quiet hospital room for Armageddon
with eyes like cracked saucers.
