I visited Walter Reed once, with

My then not-yet ex-wife, to

Visit a distant cousin of hers

Who had lost both his legs in

Afghanistan. I stood in his room with

Strangers I knew nothing of and

Who had no clue I’d served time

Too and listened to them lament.

.

And the kid, 19 I believe, was met

By a squad-mate who’d been hit

In the blast also, losing hearing

In one ear and taking shrapnel to

The face and arm. They began to

Catch up – talking of that day that

Was only a few weeks go through

A percocet and fentanyl haze.

.

Spitting lingo none of the family

In the room understood but I did;

Being very soldierly (Marines they were)

Joking the pain away with “Dude I

Think some of your leg blew into my

Mouth” and other gruesome things

That we all had joked about at one time.

.

And I felt a sense of pride and connection

With these kids, as if I were part of their

Conversation, understanding every bit

And piece, every acronym. And for a while

I was back in the billets, or on the trucks

And waxing quixotic with the men after

The days big events, nursing light wounds.

.

And in my mind I was talking right with them;

Listening to their tale, agreeing right along

With them – “Yeah crush-plate is the worst” or

“Fucking bombs made out of wood – mine sweeper

Don’t quite catch that.” And as I looked around

I realized, I was invisible – invisible to everyone.

.

I was on the outside looking in – and they

Didn’t see me nor would they ever. Because to

Them if they even knew I was present then,

I wasn’t one of them so how would I understand?

In a way I was these young men laid up in

Some hospital room shooting the shit –

Remembering what it was like, and how bad it was –

And yet I was absolutely nothing like

Them at all. I was just invisible – an outsider.