Charley

Minnesota, May 1945 DMZ, September 1967 1 In Tokyo our gallant boys dance rock-and-roll, squint eyes wary at standing easy. They leer and reel on a springboard tip and then jackknife toward the electronic noise . . . And Charley, when Time Inc. said he said the President had his head wedged about Vietnam burning for honor or—who knows? the Action he had said— married the Marines. He showered for vows on those who took his word who taught him shoot it out and shout “Yes Sir Yes Sir!” and sent him out like napalm obedient to any itchy finger. I hope the fields of Minnesota gave perspective when he moved out as to the starting line on the command,survive,survive. . . . our juiced doughboys feel their girls. 2 What did I tell you when we met last and it “after the leeches and the food” on a break in the rain was already up with you, Charley? Mouthing the big cigar like a gangster at the wheel . . . cigarette between thumb and finger the way we all even in junior high learned not to your men watching in wonder him tasting the strange (turned officer so young) foreign taste that smoke:     and all was dark except what sparks he scattered there, stubbing it out What could we do for you you hugging your knees who taught you to raise your voice? 3 No more the wide Mankato pearled with ice under blue January sky your arm around the shoulder of the friend who ran faster no more the long hours pad in hand composing reasons for your belief a belief in fathers has no reason no more the simple passion of going first your hatless straightness, the struggle, the deep worry, the dark Africa of being alive in a country run by chiefs without tribes no more of all that, only your brief beauty in many hearts in a time when fathers bury their sons, and you surrounded, cut down in a war you were fated never to see, blinded by love for all men.