One guy died in this town. Just one guy out of the seventeen that went to "Nam didn't come back. One moment, this town is as dry as that corpse, the stars and stripes it floated in, the next, as wet as the sixteen celebrating in the bar, their survival cool and frothy and alcoholic as good dreams. One guy they played the trumpet for, an eerie Taps at dawn while the others chose their own music, quarter after quarter in the jukebox like keeping a hungry beast fed so it won't turn on them. Some stood out on the common in the cold, feelings numbed, fading like the echo of the trumpeter while sixteen who were there stumbled down the street, laughing and sobbing, arms wrapped around each other, bodies fused into the one too big to bury.
Had I wished to write to myself. I could have churned out another poem... from my head to my heart. Not even the Post Office could mess that up. But I wanted to bring you into the equation and, like always, I listened to my address book. But the old street address, the town, the zip code, doesn't work for me anymore. Or maybe they do take the time to reply but 'Return to Sender" is all they have to say. Instead of shredding the unwanted missive, I open it and read would you believe. Maybe it is another poem but it just needed to travel cross-country for a spell, to separate the creation and the meaning. Not bad, I'm thinking, as my eyes come to grips with my feeling. I should write to myself long distance more often. I just need to find myself some people who don't live where they live.
