The died in Anzio, blood-soaked Verdun.
In Viet Nam they bled and died again –
a brother, father, lover, cherished son –
no legendary heroes, only men.
They dreamed of wives and children, fresh-mowed lawns,
the corner tavern, frisky dogs, the Mets’
next game, home-cooked meals and rosy dawns,
the fence they never painted, unpaid debts.
And talked of many things: the President,
women, books that everyone had read,
religion, God, the letter they just sent,
the war, and how it felt to be stone dead.
Mary Engelberg