Sarge


Right in the middle of Crombie Street,
Replete with imagined M-16,
Sarge takes a beachhead.

Under the watchful eye of  
    a closed-circuit guard,
A cell will be an 8 hour R & R
    from the war he doesn't need to remember.
Sarge won't make it home tonight
    (he may never make it home).

Though an infantry grunt, 
    he dreams himself a marine.
Semper Fi Sarge! You are due our respect.
On this Memorial Day, I remember you.
I'll lift a salty glass 
	too full of your tears
	and memories of each battle-scarred 
		brain cell lost
			in Operation Vodka.

I want to soak in these failing rays
	of present memory
Before the all-directional wind
	whips up the ghosts.
Through backyard barbecue laughter,
	the cadence of the graveyard band
	marches the memories of 50 street dead
		through my gut;
Half a hundred violence-filled, 
	system-neglected,
		disease-ridden,
			booze-tortured
				deaths.

Let them march.
Today I will remember Sarge
	and the grunts who stagger with him.
Now,
	before it is too late to salute them.
Copyright � 1996 Ian Lynch. All rights reserved