Published Spring 2006
 
The Scouts
O the fun they will make— the woven baskets & braided belts, the
nooses, bonfires, buckshot constellations on stop signs, the generalized
roughing of It—
Walter in sash & knee-socks, uniform spiked by the pins & medals
of meritocracy. He will master the arts of punching, clubbing, knifing,
kicking, punctures & lacerations, gashes & penetrations, bruises
& pinches.
He will admire before a mirror the martial flare of his outfit.
He will sniff the scoutmaster's gin-lacquered breath & think O
what piney noble breath! What grownup-y glimmering woodsman breath!
The scouts will be like brothers to him, the scoutmaster like a
father.
He will work his way from a badger to wolf to grizzly scout, growing
more vicious with every turn. On to rabid pit bull scout! On to
cornered wolverine protecting its young! On to the pinnacle: creature
whose name shall not be uttered, who swoops down at any moment,
lightning-quick, to strike at babies & nuns & red cross volunteers.
O the fun to be had at summer camp— morning bugle brass glinting
in the sun, daddy long-legs on the tent walls, a pool full of chickenfights
& cannonballs.
Pole-sitting, midget tossing, the whittling of arrows for the arsenal.
The crude emulation of native rites: erection of teepees, older
fellows in loincloths, fire & tom-toms, scouts working themselves
into a frenzy of bloodlust until— what's this?—
The camp director's daughter wanders onto the scene, blonde little
nymph; how they fall upon her, nosing with scouts, more curious
than cruel. Still the camp director thinks it best to beat them
back, smother them, punch & club, gash & bruise, pinch & kick. He
was a scout once himself, after all.
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