Serve Chilled

"I'm going to look for a soda that isn't diet," I say,
And I walk past stripped jets and folded helos,
Past a fuel tank, into the Hall of Heroes,
Where this ship's namesake battle's brave line the walls--
"Bulkheads," I remind myself, "Bulkheads."

Past the portrait and citation-lined bulkheads, then,
And into the cafeteria where we eat three squares a day.
I stop at one machine, where a young Marine greets me with
"How's it going, Sergeant?" "What's up, man," I reply,
My disappointment growing with each fruitless press of a button.

I move on to another machine, and my first attempt yields success.
I press the chilly can to my neck, marvelling at this miracle
Of refrigeration. Its effect is instant, and for a few moments
I forget the dew on my skin, the salt lines on my olive drab shirt,
And the near-constant burn at the corners of my eyes.

*** *** *** ***

Yep, it's about buying a soda. It's hotter than dammit here.