I release the faint and reassuring pressure
of my fingertip on the trigger there.
I let loose my death grip,
hug my weapon like a teddy bear.
The rain keeps coming, more thick than strong,
washing the chemical hurt from the hill
whose side we huddle on.
I can’t say I feel safe, more embraced
by a subtle act of God.
Surely the most hardened Vietcong will not violate
this night of washing clean.
©Tom Puetz 2010