I look like the statue David

dressed for trick or treat

in a rusty semblance of me

against that stars and stripes backdrop

we all know from elementary school.

My sergeant probably gave the advice:

wipe the smile off my face.

Those knobs atop my skull, revealed

only when they shaved my head.

They lent me a machine gun

a tool for compensation.

That belt of ammunition

is a python around my neck.

How sinister my posture

how stony my gaze.

Who occupies that uniform

which bears my name?