The good old boys were coming home
to waving red white & blue, smiling
faces of the family left behind, and
breathing in the American air, that
isn't choked by dust and sand and sweltering
with hot desert sunshine.
Well, that foreign sun wasn't beating down
on his neck anymore, but the beads of
sweat on his forehead persisted.
And at night, the hands on his face and
the faces in darkened windows haunted
him no matter how much alcohol
slid down his throat. He tried to drink away
the image of the half hidden face
of the old woman he shot- as she fell,
bullets riddling her body, a white flag
clasped in her withered hands fluttered
to the ground. So, maybe it wasn't
as surprising as his officers and buddies
on the frontline would like to think, when
his father found him hanging from the
garden hose, as peaceful as he'd ever
been since he got home.