— Nick Butterfield
I recall the works of the Unibomber.
The skin of his hands hung loosely like
A tent badly built.
The story was the Unibomber left what looked like
A sack lunch next to a computer terminal
On the nearby Berkeley Campus.
The Naval Graduate was studying close to the
Brown paper bag when it blew.
Regularly for skin grafts and rehab.
The strong smell of iodine and shiny sterile floors
In which germs were not permitted.
Looking back, the Hospital we called Oak a Kno
was a ship that
Would take me to new places from where I came.
A friend of mine who was a Corpsman like me
Spoke like he was from Jamaica, but he wasn’t.
He turned out to be a local native from a neighborhood
The Hospital I saw on T.V. was recently demolished
In a series of neatly organized explosions.
My experiences there salted the rest of my career,
The salt from an Ocean I never saw, not far from here.