It's difficult for me to read a lot of the stuff I wrote in my teens and early twenties, but I am still quite fond of this poem. “The Barn” was published in a tiny literary publication when I was 21, and, along with a couple of so-so short stories and a few not-so-stellar poems, it helped me get my hands on some scholarship dough I needed to stay in college. I found the original copy (typed on a word processor!) in a stack of old papers in our storage unit today. I remember I'd been watching a lot of CNN's coverage of the Persian Gulf War the night I wrote it.

The Barn

By Patrick Best

For at least twelve of his eighteen years
I silently guessed his wishes
When he blew out the age wicks.
I believe I was correct on eleven.

I pleaded for weeks on end
For him to settle for working the back fields.
But just like our damn weather
He needed to be black and blue and rain.

His father came by, to talk
Sadly proud of the sacrifice he’d made for a noble cause.
I wondered whether he’d rather have his son
Than the embarrassed nods and silent applause.

In the hay filled loft I hid
From the news, I avoided it with distance.
Just yesterday, it seems, were fishing all day
Without a nibble, but content with long friendship casts.

The swaying oak moved shadows amongst the stacks.
I peeked gingerly about, hoping he’d startle me,
That it had all been a prank
And we’d both fall in laughter at his cleverness.

But all I found was musty gray straw,
Dusty, and loud as my thoughts.
Dead, sharp from the blade’s sweeping angle,
Scraping my bare legs raw.

It was probably a lone bullet from a young gun,
Maybe even a farmer like me.
Forced to take my friend’s life
Because of where his acreage lay.

His falling and the sun’s
Brought a sorrowful darkness to the barn.
The same place where we took joy
In discussing changing, evolving dreams of the future.

The barn was also the last place I saw him
With his uniform creased and hair prickly neat.
We hugged and were photographed at the celebration
Wearing big toothy smiles that said “Never end.”