Dennis Maulsby

Soldiers' Dream of Myrtle Beach 1966

I remember our last day on Myrtle Beach,
exposed, hot hour after hot hour.
Pitching sand back between our legs,
Buddha, Mac and I dug holes,
made awnings of ponchos and driftwood,

kept the sun from poaching us.
We body-surfed, rushed in
to punch up on the shore,
until our chests and bellies
were striped with bloody scratches.

Covered with salt grit,
smelled like dogs that had rolled in dead things,
we couldn't make it with any girls.
Buddha chanted, "Bitches, bitches…"
Mac and I kicked sand

on each other's baloney sandwiches.
The tourists arrived at noon.
They knew who we were, with our military hair
and "stuff your rules" veterans' glare.
They tried to keep us invisible-

looking sideways for blood on our hands.
"Whose army…
whose fuckin' army we in?" Mac asked.
The three of us bumped through the crowd,
snatches of suntan oil and female perfume
rubbed off on our arms and hips.

We allowed ourselves sweet sips of whiskey
escaped from shot glasses
at the bottom of beer mugs.
That night, we cruised the boardwalk
washed by revolving neon shadows,

the odor of hydraulic fluid
mingled with grease fried potatoes,
and the tussling of music of six carnival rides.
At the final hour,
we were welcomed

into the group at the piano bar:
two lesbian Asian women,
petty thieves on break,
the top whore with her pimp,
and a slumped alcoholic.

Our loss of caste complete,
we three derelict soldiers.