This is from my book Transparent Conspiracy, but reposted here on the occasion of Memorial Day 2019:
"It don't make a goddam bit of difference," Jason says,
hunched forward, elbows on his knees,
staring out my attic window
where I survive.
But what is he waiting for
if not for me?
His speckled flesh, once abundant
(you couldn't tell he lifted weights)
droops on his bones.
He's smaller and his face is lined
like jungle trails, leading nowhere,
a map with no names,
a story with no end.
His hair, longer now,
hangs over the collar of his field jacket,
nlo longer flaming, burning darker,
like a sun that won't go down.
I watch his back
and he watches mine.
