I've always wanted to play the part <br />of that puckish pubescent Filipino boy <br /> <br />in those John Wayne Pacific-War movies. <br />Pepe, Jose, or Juanito would be smiling, <br /> <br />bare-chested and eager to please <br />for most of the steamy jungle scenes. <br /> <br />I'd be the one who would cross <br />the Japanese lines and ask for tanks, <br /> <br />air support, or more men. I'd miraculously <br />make it back to the town where John Wayne <br /> <br />is holding his position against the enemy <br />with his Thompson machine-gun. As a reward, <br /> <br />he'd rub that big white hand on my head <br />and he'd promise to let me clean <br /> <br />his Tommy gun by the end of the night. But <br />then, a Betty Grable look-a-like love <br /> <br />interest would divert him by sobbing <br />into his shoulder, saying how awfully scared <br /> <br />she is about what the "Japs" would do <br />to her if she were captured. In one swift <br /> <br />motion, John Wayne would sweep her off <br />her feet to calm her fears inside his private quarters. <br /> <br />Because of my Hollywood ability <br />to be anywhere, I'd be under the bed <br /> <br />watching the woman roll down her stockings <br />as my American hero unbuckles his belt. <br /> <br />I'd feel the bottom of the bed bounce off my chest <br />as small-arms fire explodes outside the walls. <br /> <br /> <br />Submitted by Samuel Hamada<br /><br />Nick Carbo<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/little-brown-brother/
