by

Robert H. Dirr Jr.

I see the faces of these boys who would be men:
Mouths with downward slants, topped with mustaches,
Expressionless, with a hint of wishing they were somewhere else.
Jaws clamped shut with razor stubble dancing
To the rhythm of working muscles from temple to chin.
Noses turned up or down, beaked or squat, broad or
Narrow with pellets of sweat dribbling at frequent intervals.
Heads made universal in appearance by camouflaged
Steel helmets, sliding from side to side because they were too big.

But what set these boys apart from others were their eyes:
Eyes set within darkened sockets, like marbles
In shot glasses filled with bourbon, heavily shadowed and ringed.
Weary and frowning, bloodshot from not enough sleep,
Glazed and dreamy, comatose but awake.
Pupils dwarfed by overexposure to polished sunlight,
Fixed at nothingness. A Thousand-yard stare.
Forty years ago and the stare is still there.

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