Ol' Koz is blowing bubbles,

That goofy son of a bitch.

He really asked for trouble

When he stood up in that ditch.

It's up to me to stop it;

My God, are we alone?

Aw shit, there's Billy Proffit,

Blowing bubbles of his own.

Turn him over on his side;

What's next now?

Let me think.

I don't have much time to decide;

Here Koz, take a drink.

I'm shaking like I've lost control;

There, I've wrapped it tight.

Koz, you're lookin' good, you fool;

You'll sleep in sheets tonight.

There's the chopper; no more trouble.

Man, I almost came unstrung

When Koz blew red, wet bubbles;

When he caught one in the lung.

*     *     *
The author: Harold Cockson served in the Corps from Sept. 1966–Sept. 1968, with Whiskey Battery 2nd Bn., 11th Marines in Vietnam 67–68; Hill 63, BLT 3/1—Cua Viet River, Camp Carroll, Ca Lu. After that BLT went to Phu Loc, then An Hoa. Currently he is Senior Planning Specialist
with Nebraska Public Power District (26 years).
Zen-and-now pix of the author.

>>>  Poetry Page
>>>  Memoir Page
Blowing Bubbles in the Sun