The boy who drowned in the bog, the boy caught in the rotors, the boy who laughed too loud —
The boy who swallowed the bee that stung the throat —
The rip cord worked, but the parachute fluttered weakly above him and would not bloom —
He put his foot down in the foreign grass and heard a click, as of metal on metal. When he lifted that foot —
Sometimes it is a cold day and the clouds rain toxin over the boys on the base—
Sometimes, they don't know they're being watched, leaning against their packs, asleep like that —
One more, one more, he said. One more all around — And the assembled clapped for him, they clapped, he put his money down and smiled because they loved him —
Sometimes a boy thinks he is unloved, so he retires to a dark tent where he will not be disturbed —
Then, the cells wink out like lights on a tall office building in a strange city at dusk —
His friends said it was a sad day, it was very sad. They thought he'd been kidding, they told him not to laugh like that —
You pull the string and out it blooms —
And what was he doing off the base late at night? What was he doing on the open water, in the plane, driving so fast down unfamiliar roads? His mother —
Someone would tell her. Someone would write her a letter, thank god. There's a template for that —
A guy who puts your name on the hard drive, a distant office, a simple program and printer —
You punch in the name and out it comes.