Sprawled on a park bench, I enjoy the feeling
Of sunflakes settling upon my skin.
I am listening to Adagio for Strings:
A fitting piece for the death of winter,
And the soundtrack to a movie about war.
Today is the twenty-sixth anniversary
Of my departure from Vietnam.

(I returned on a stretcher,
flying in the guts of a
converted cargo plane
that smelled of
embalming fluid.)

Sprawled on a park bench, I remember
The faces of thirty-seven friends who
Died like the winter and return every year.
We never had the chance to say goodbye.
I think I'll take a trip to Washington D.C.
And touch their names etched on the Wall,
And this spring I will lay them to rest.

(Their faces haunt
dream filled nights,
and are so real
I sometimes don't
want to wake up.)