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