It’s over now, John,

you didn’t make the history books.

You’ve got to go back,

pay off your mortgage.

You can’t smoke pot anymore

to get yourself out of bed.

Your kids will want more

than slogans and rock songs.

You’ll have to do more

than slouch on a front porch.

and stare into sunsets.

Nobody’ll care about your

blood and gut stories.

No one will believe what you saw,

what you did, what they did or what

the Department of Defense is hiding.

Your letters will go unread.

You’ll grow bitter and mean

like old men at Veteran’s Day parades.

The G.I. Bill wont pay for your anger.

Crazy doesn’t count.

Contents / Next Poem / Published Works