PTSD
(Post Traumatic Stress Disorder)

Tickets to the play tucked in my coat pocket,
parking lot full, I tip the porter, waited thirty days.
Corner of St. Mary’s Street and Houston,
my wife and I wait for the illuminated man to start
his walk, soon there after, we walk.

Holding hands, my right her left, we cough,
our other hands politely covering our mouths,
we stand waiting for the illuminated man.
With his amber hand bigger than he, he signals
Don’t Walk, taking a month of Sundays to change.

And there we are, left in the exhaust, a plume
of poison, as the bus proceeds to the next
pre-determined stop, watched by a lanky
but once plump man, the notches on his dangling
belt do tell, standing at the next corner, Utopia.

Bending his arm chest-level, staring
at the Timex on his wrist, the short hand
on the seven, the long hand on the thirty,
the approaching bus is running early,
“good job,” the driver’s supervisor thinks.

Slyly and slightly he turns his head, straining
his left eye as if to seize the moment of the pshhht,
the airbrake signal that it’s okay to board.
With great aplomb, he strokes the Bic on his report,
his hat hangs low upon his sweaty brow.

And here we stand, my wife and I, coughing,
while the illuminated man holds his nose,
breathing through his mouth, the stench of diesel.

My hand is damp, warm droplets run
down my forehead, some becoming beads below
my nose, wish I had a mustache.
My wife’s stare fixed upon my ashen face,
and feeling me shake, she asks, “What’s Wrong?”

I feel sick, feel like running, dormant butterflies flutter,
I try to find the nearest manhole.
Growing sicker, I turn us back toward
the car, the illuminated man leaves his hutch, Walk, don’t run,
ninety dollars worth of vomit left on Houston Street.

Three days later, looking in a drawer, I find
a picture of Dong Ha, the ‘hood where I
became a man, home of the original “drive-by.”
A tank moves down the road, leaving its exhaust,
Marines breathing through their mouths, the stench of diesel.
My hand is damp, warm droplets run
down my forehead, some becoming beads below
my nose, wish I had a mustache.
My wife’s stare fixed upon my ashen face,
and seeing me shake, she asks, “What’s Wrong?”

I feel sick, feel like running, dormant butterflies flutter,
I look around for the nearest foxhole.
I see the photo and can still smell
the stench of diesel, through my mouth,
three hundred and seventy days worth,
I vomit.

by Roberto Pachecano
(Dong Ha, Vietnam, ‘67-’68, 9th Marine Infantry Regiment)

 

 

 

 

 

Contact Info: info@RobertoPachecano.com