my boots

are tan, weather worn, unimposing.
they've seen a lot.
at times i think they've seen more than me.
marched in step on camp hornos parade deck;
trudged up the uss pearl harbors ladder wells;
dried and cracked in the kuwaiti desert;
soaked through with rain on the streets of fallujah.

one boot has a large dent in it. still rubs awkward against my big toe, makes just an impression to let me know its still there.
forget how i got it.
maybe an ammo can fell on it.
the soles are gnarled smooth. the grit of multiple naval carriers and the heat of the middle-east, creating a lacquered sheen..
some deep cuts are there too.
i know how i got those.
i did it.
i did it with my k-bar five years ago.
on guard duty.
it would be late, quiet.
the world ceasing fire.
then after sharpening it, id test it out on my tan rubber sole.

within the creases of the boot, underneath the beige laces, still covered with iraqi dirt, resides a dog tag. it is dented and dirty and has my name on it, my social security number, blood type, gas mask size, and tells my captors im in the United States Marine Corps.
got quiet a few dog tags floating around.
once had free reign of the dog tag machine at the school of infantry.
that was after my first tour.
thought i was shit hot. a salty dog.
and i walked through my old barracks, passing young Marines, fresh from boot camp, still looking scared and apprehensive.
i liked these kids.
joining after sept 11 2001, these guys actively choose to go to war.
something akin to the old timers after pearl harbor.
romantic patriots.
these kids.
18 year olds.
and i shuddered, thinking about the rabid jihadists they would eventually have to face.
about how their faces would look when they finally realized: this is war.

the prose you've read about in "farewell to arms;"
the jingoistic bullshit they lionized in boot camp;
the crap they protested against in the 60s.

don’t know why I wear my boots anymore.
just do every once in a while.
i mean i dont get all dolled up in my dress blues and march around my house, barking orders at imaginary subordinates. recite lines from 'taxi driver' in front of a full length mirror.

but these boots, they’re mine.
they’re all that I have now: memories.
because im officially out of the marine corps. no more inactive reserve. no more threats of being activated.
no stop-loss.
im a civilian.
a common joe looking in on an alien world.