In his mouth is a wad of regulation Wonder Bread,
cube steak, beans, and mess-tin ravioli.
Other sergeants around him, mostly from Tennessee,
sip Madeira out of battered metal cups
as the white men look on from separate tables,
eager to get him into the ring.
On the barracks walls behind the champ
are aerial maps of Southern France,
juice-stained Belgium, the boot of Calabria
which kicks at ripped-out pin-up girls,
splayed and taped to sweaty cinderblocks.
Their long legs stretch as if to allow
each serviceman to enter once: a dark Turk
sits in a corner, slurping soup, dreaming of fatty
breasts of Hedy Lamarr, Betty Grable's breathing
under water, riding the red-haired Asian lady
of the machete. But every time Joe spits
or gulps more water, the conversation stops --
the object of desire is here and in the flesh,
everybody smiling at the truce they've reached
until one war is over and another starts.

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