poetry - I hate the sound of helicopters

I hate the sound of helicopters
be it troop burdened hueys stirring red clay
or civilian medevacs lighting down on the school parking lot

For me copters in the air mean only one thing
disaster drills that are real

At night, especially
that clattering whirr
breaking the silence
lights blinking in advance
afore the searchlight clicks on looking for a landing pad

Once, the clatter heralded napalmolive nightmares
thundering replacements for beyond exhausted grunts
followed by frantic retreats bearing frag wounded soldiers back to base
or Stateside,
Depending

And now it ain't much effing different
Only last mothers' day, two of 'em came
settling their haunches on the air strip down the road
to retrieve two souls
one merely shocked
the second, her body alive only in basic functions
the soul having already moved on

This is no place for Sky Team Eight
Blissfully blathering traffic patterns
for the benefit of commuters who watched in tv
prior to leaving work
no playful anchor banter about kids' softball teams
or fave recipes

Nope. Here it's just a grim reaper landing so that the lost soul might start the journey heavenward
a bit sooner
even if the ultimate destination
is, as an end run, less glorious