I dreamt last night of
Burma.
I was a gunner for my grandfather.
He wore three
chevrons on his sleeve,
with
a couple of rockers underneath.
By the end of it all,
he'd earn
a nice diamond
to put right in the center.
He was damn proud of those patches.
They were new when I saw him last night.
He had a
lucky strike
hanging out his mouth
looking like
Clark Gable
when good ol'
Joany lights his smoke in
Chained.
He hollered out
Welcome Marauder;
Welcome brother.
And I knew
I was safe
in his command.
Dreams don't come easy in the hospital.
Too many tiny noises keep me up all night
so a good one like that is rare.
They say one more surgery
and this leg isn't gonna give out anymore.
A welcome home for good gift
from
Martin Dempsey.
But you know
a guy like that
doesn't even know me.
But in the dream
my grandfather--
he was a
bloodhound,
hot on the trail
and first on the track.
The
type of man you knew
would get you back
home.
And I miss it now, laying in
a tangle of
white sheets
just like I missed it
while sleeping in the
desert's heat.
In the dream,
I caught my grandfather
scribbling out a letter
that read
I love you baby and
when
this is better
Burma ain't gonna miss me
even a fraction
of what I missed you sweets.