I could have gone and been properly killed
with the children of my generation, but I waited
for death on more familiar turf, near places I
practiced it — storming Nazi bunkers on the
red ash pile with my BB gun, stalking
Japanese snipers down the jungle trail
behind clapboard garages, counting
to a hundred by fives.
Billy Edwards must have done well at Chu Lai
because he hit the ground so gracefully,
and yet so hard, when gut-shot from the roof
of our chicken coop. I should have gone
and been properly killed, but I
stayed home to write poems instead
and part of me died just the same.
Rob Burnside, a yearly visitor to Edgartown, is a retired firefighter and published poet (chapbook “Falling Off the Bone” currently available on Amazon) from Kingston, Pa.