No point in protesting and no one to protest to.
And spare me the homilies,
I’d rather it were someone else's dead son.
I’ve few clear recollections
But the images that emerge,
Fanciful and pungent, are overwhelming:
Faced with another little boy
Who, like him, had just begun walking,
Michael started crying: the other kid was wearing shoes.
At five he and I had books to read and stories to create,
Marching chocolate puddings
Leading a parade of Dr. Seuss characters.
He was seven when,
After spending a boring day at my base,
He announced he was going home... a 15 mile walk?
If I search there will be times of stress...
I wasn’t there for most of them,
So my guilt is amorphous but genuine.
Where’s the love?
Present.
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