I thought I’d turned it in
once and for all
at Long Bien.
And yet I sling it across my chest
heavy with grenades,
loaded magazines;
tell my young son,
“The war is over”
I fight it;
promise my baby girl
I’ll take it off
but can’t;
lie to my lover
I left it there and
she vaguely smiles.
One day I’ll toss it
into a rice paddy
of never been.
Until then I’ll bear its weight
and drag it into flashback afternoons
with no sense of honor.
I never fought for my country,
only for Tony, a black guy from Detroit,
who humped with me into Cambodia.