It rhymes with onset, so it makes sense: these huts appeared shortly after war began. Kits of them ship to American outposts abroad: curved metal ribs, plywood floor strips; corrugated iron to lay a roof like bent accordion pleats. Ten men could put one together in less than a day—rows of them a camp, a base. Mess hall, machine shop, hospital, barracks. Somewhere, a radio or decryption machine. Upon his return, the general who said he knows what every enemy lieutenant had for breakfast adjusts his aviators After the smoke clears, the Peashooters and Bombardment Squadron lift away. It's Peacetime now and the huts are turned to civilian use. In the city where I grew up, one of them becomes a dispensary. Another close to the park is a library, where my father takes me one day to get a card, to borrow my first library book. It's quiet there but when it rains, the masonite lining cannot silence the drumming on the roof.
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