The Drill

THE DRILL Arrive with boots. The march early or late. The rose-fed cheeks. The eyes are green - new leaves. The cadence call. No turning back. Blank slate. New beginnings. In adventures, believes. On the clothesline, strung together, the bras. In the barracks, she-decorations hang. The flag flies high. Painting of Betsy Ross. Put together - this puzzle’s unlikely gang. The coins bouncing. We ban undoing beds. The quickest wash. The reveille’s real. Back to the grind. Rote march from the beachheads. Us she-sailors, we salute-shine…we heel. We learn the drill - this camp is not playing. We’re uniform - there’s no place for straying. 5/26/2023