Eric Anderson

Hogan’s Heroes

The premise only proves

everything is eventual

fodder for our amusement

and explains why the war

in my 5th grade mind was a place

to practice the wacky

inventions of the world:

            I longed for secret

compartments and tunnels, a spinning

door in the back of my closet, a radio

so powerful I could hear

greetings from allies across oceans

of static and thunder, 

                           but how

to justify the textbook’s

photos of black and white

bodies jumbled together, frozen

kindling in winter landscapes?  Or the news-

reel footage, men stretching their

mouths so the white-tongued

tapeworms writhed out? 

                                    Cut to

color, Schultz, in the doorway, Klink’s

one big eye finding me. Hogan,

hat askew, winks. 

                        We laugh

because we believe

it’ll never happen

again, not for us, not

in Abu Ghriab, in Guantanomo. 

I know nothink.