We call them vets when they come home,
so many of them, right legs and jawbones
of the great body that went over there, so
familiar we nickname them, look at the vets,
wave to the vets, go up to that vet and say
thank you. New kids think vets heal puppies
but the old soldiers, veterans of who knows
what still carry their flags and wear their
medals and talk to each other down to the
legion until disease replaces their wounds
and we throw a warm blanket of camouflage
over their hearsay heroism until the old
vets die into quarter-page photos in small
newspapers, wrinkled relics in decorated
uniforms and funny hats, retired actors
from movies we never saw. When the last
vet is gone we can declare the great war
was dumb, a great mistake but there are
new wars, always new wars, new survivors
to shuffle endlessly down main street.
It is almost November eleven when we will
stand quietly again, men young and old,
women and children, mostly the children,
thinking about something something
but what does it matter if you don't remember,
never knew or can't understand. Better,
maybe, to spend the two minutes screaming.
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