Mike
in memory of Michael Dameron, cousin, artist,
veteran
Michael did the best he could
To put things right he was in the war
Fought the commie gooks
Killed them in their own hills
A relentless Marine
Breaking brush with his M-14
Death's cold fingers gripped his soul
Dark angels joyously
Circled his shoulders
Till something snapped
"This is crap"
He muttered to his morning joint
Crouching down in a bunker
Looking out over green hills
Thick rich with life
A hillbilly's vision of paradise
It had become too clear to Mike
That no matter what anybody said
The reason he was in those hills
Was to kill people who
Wanted him to leave them alone
So they tried to kill him
Just as fast and as hard as they could
Just as hard as he would
If an army came up in his hills
Killed half of his family with napalm
Turned his sisters into prostitutes
And broke his mother's will with grief
Mike wasn't worth much
To the Marine Corps after that
Because he had some medals
They quietly sent him back
A man of straw
Appalled at the tragedies he'd caused
Gaunt drunk haunted with images
Mike fought back
He felt he had been betrayed
To a bad cause sold out
Betrayed betrayed betrayed
You don't do that
To a fighting Scot
And get away with it
The Marine Corps recruiting office
Was right down the block from the bar
The night the recruiter's office burned
Mike leaned against a lamp post
Sipped a longneck and smiled
Big smile first one in a while
Then he tried to blow a big building up
It was an embarrassment
Didn't use enough nitrates
Barely shook the dust off the bricks
Mike got caught did a little time
He never knew the reason why but
He was still my hero when his liver died
by Jess C. Henderson
... who is educated in creative writing, a former newspaper and
trade journal editor, now writing freelance poems and essays; as
an amateur historian, he writes the Posted
Muster column in this literary magazine.
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