Late nights I watched them in a circle
of muted flashlights banging an old guitar,
sucking harmonicas, keeping time with the crust
of their jungle boots, singing protest songs,
the latest Beatles tune, ballads of homeland betrayals
Back from checking the wire I often found them
laying in stupors around a hookah like little boys
finally worn down at the end of an overnight
at a friend’s house back in The World
Charlie was out there waiting,
sorely wanting us out of his country
Old man of the squad I stood watch with
an untrusty M-16, bowie knife and grenades
until I slumped and slept against a sandbag wall
I still catch myself driving on the now foreign streets
of my childhood city, singing the lines of songs
we sang back then of loss and regret and betrayal,
lines I keep repeating one by one:
“I heard the news today oh boy…”
“I ain’t no fortunate son…”
“We gotta get outta this place,”
lines stuck on the scratchy CDs of my brain
Never since have I found “Oh say can you see,”
worth a salute, a tear or losing any sleep over