Eleven days after my twenty-fourth

Birthday, I lost a soldier. My gunner.

It was a Thursday; The sun was high

And the day was long. I bade him

farewell three days after he wished

His wife a happy Valentines day.

He told me I would be O.K. If I

Stuck with him – He knew the ropes.

Couldn’t be touched; even wore his

Spurs dead-man style – that’s with

The rowels ’round front of your boots,

Over the laces. Tempting fate was his thing.

I knew right then and there it wouldn’t

Be O.K. but in fact would be far from it.

And when my secret suspicion was sadly

Confirmed – the blood washed off but

The guilt settled into the marrow

Of my bones, where it resides for all time.

There is a feeling, very distinct

That no one should have to feel,

But does have to carry for life

When you order a man to his death.

Especially when you’ve just turned

Twenty-four.