The Lost Soldiers

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.