The dead and missing from the foreign wars
come home again.
They’ve been at sea these many years
in bunks, on deck
with cobalt waters underneath them sloshing;
scavengers, the gulls in their long wake
gobbling the body parts,
the bits and pieces cast adrift.
They roam our town in shredded uniforms
and dented helmets,
stand and stare in parks and public forums,
bleeding from the ears,
the stomach, at the neck,
but now and then
alert enough to raise a wary eyebrow,
wondering what cause
was just enough and equal to the terror
of the little children
who were burned, though probably in error.