They keep him on the boat
for a month. He can watch television
even so far from us,
bad movies again and again and raw
feed from Afghanistan and Iraq, creeping
white letters and numbers at the bottom of the screen
meaning missions and squadrons.
He fits designation with name and worries.
He learns not to sit up in beds bunked
for efficiency, not to eat the lobster or crab.
This boat cannot fish.
He wonders how they keep
the lettuce fresh, the tomatoes.
In the gym with windows he runs the treadmill,
pretends he runs the waves, nearly
falls as the boat heaves left, fears
his feet hitting only air.
Eleven every morning
the loudspeaker calls him by number
and he receives manila folder orders.
Altitude, duration,
where to practice dropping the bombs.
He pulls on the flight suit,
gray and worn in all the right
places, takes an Immodium
if the flight is long. He has friends
who shit in their helmet bags. He moves
from confinement to confinement,
the cockpit casing him from roar
of engine and air—so much air,
of a sudden. He cups a hand along the curved
horizon. He knows the brain-drunk of hypoxia,
the brief release from gravity, the taste
of burning jet fuel, the deadly weight
this machine will carry, someday.