Without leathers, he’s but a man
Irish face, tan, thick waist.
But garbed in medals, head-rag, boots,
he’s Genghis, Grant, Hannibal –
thunder rolling on a Harley.
Still a warrior 40 years on
jungles long gone – no Cong to fight,
he defends in statehouse, hospital, VA
his band – most dead by 64 –
and others from more recent wars.
Cigars like old rags stain his hands.
He smells of man: smoke, sweat and musk
sleeps poorly, dreams of violence each dusk.
The price of war’s eternal vigilance
perpetual keeping score.
published on http://www.vietnamwarpoetry.com/cpcynthiamsheward.html