I.
I still have
your baseball cap.
I hope you never walk
like the man in front of me
in airport security
in the same cap, thirty years older,
being thanked for his shattered
knees, swollen feet, distended belly,
platoon number.
Thank you for everything
you've done for our country, sir.
Thank you for being nameless,
faceless,
sold short to a long cause.
II.
I can't go out in public
with you any more.
I'm in love with someone
who says soliders don't think,
none of you think,
and it's like he's throwing
whole books of matches on my faith
in a driftwood man who once
had a wet face, anxious hands,
and a thousand ways to drown
in our high school pool.
Oh right. Sorry.
Not soldier.
Marine.
III.
"I heard you died."
I experiment with this,
its weight in my mouth
a carousel of possibilities.
I heard
burnt rubber
You died
my grandmother's apartment after the funeral
I heard you died
gasoline.
I heard you died,
I say,
nonchalantly sucking down
a strawful of oil. Did you
hear too?
News travels fast.
IV.
I still have
your baseball cap.
It tastes like home.