He kept it slightly open,

the storage closet where

he hid the nightmares,

the wooden box where he hid

the jungle boots, medals,

VC propaganda leaflets,

because like the criminal

he was and he wasn’t,

he kept going back there,

to be caught, to be set free,

for someone to peek in,

to turn away, to be aghast,

to shake him and say

“Wake up, you’re just

having a nightmare,”

to give him absolution,

to close the door, lock it,

throw away the key

he lost on his way home