PTSD

Awakened by the steely rat-tat-tat
of machine gun fire.
I flash blood-soaked men
mangled in gnashing pain.

Gasping for breath, drenched in sweat,
my racing heart is a bullet train about to plunge
off the tracks. With no air to breathe,
I’ll run outside and zigzag down the street
to avoid sniper fire.

When I reach for my helmet and rifle,
I pick up a nickel-plated waffle-maker
and sheepskin lined bed slippers
holding a hand-blown glass trifle
scored at the Alemany Flea Market.

With no enemy in sight, and sun on my face,
I listen to a deafening clatter of a chorus
of pneumatic drills tearing up the tired macadam
on Cyril Magnin Street.

When my wife hangs up the wash, I fall back to sleep
as I listen to her sing the theme song from Les Mis.