Quonset

                  It rhymes with onset, so it makes sense: 
these huts appeared shortly after war began.
                  Kits of them shipped 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.