Gratitude of a Nation

by Gordon Kippola

It’s rarely wrong to be polite, so, sure: a nod
a smile-stained-sad, and my thank you in return,
Dear Citizen! If you also swore a military oath
(don’t fear, I’ll never ask), I presume you’d concur

that it’s better to be praised than spat upon. Sure,
we do more before 9 a.m. than most people do
all day, or so the eighties recruiting ad bragged.
Speaking semi-honestly of my own three decades, 

here’s the sacrificial scoop: when working hard 
was unavoidable or helped me advance in rank,
I busted ass, while mostly perfecting the sham.
I choose to think I’d have died for the Soldiers

I served alongside, if death became insistent,
but I can’t prove it. Die for King and Country?
Die for parchment, honor, oil, and flag? Die 
for you? I’d be the laughingstock of Valhalla.

After eight years of retired-old-man jogs,
not quite chased—or in pursuit—anymore,
texts from a hidden number war still ding
at night: if Valhalla isn’t real, I’m screwed.

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“The nature of my Army job put me in constant contact with large numbers of civilians. The ribbon stack on my uniform was befitting of a North Korean General, including a Bronze Star Medal (without a ‘V’ device it meant nothing more than me being a pretty senior guy who successfully got through a year in Iraq). I was thanked for my service thousands of times, all the while feeling like a fraud. When my pre-retirement career becomes known, I still receive thanks sometimes. I trained myself to accept gratitude with a smile, imagining that I’m a stand-in for a service member important to that person, or for an idea they have of the U.S. military.” —Gordon Kippola

Following a career as a U.S. Army musician, Gordon Kippola earned an MFA in Creative Writing at the University of Tampa, and calls Bremerton, Washington home. His poetry has appeared in Rattle, Post Road Magazine, District Lit, The Road Not Taken, The Main Street Rag, Southeast Missouri State University Press, and other splendid publications.