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1968 (poem)

By Richard Wells

War. American as apple pie. GI — government issue. Your soul might belong to God, but your ass belongs to the US Army.

Hood, sweet young sad eyed GI

Pissed off
empty

Stretched too thin for fuck you
just wants left alone

Rotated outta Nam cool your heels do your time worlds collide would collide no matter where no matter what — Germany

Wraith kid scared everybody death smudged looking for that far away

Could have dissolved like salt no energy to him occupied so little space hardly there

UCMJ got him

Count Cadence! Count:

Spec 4
busted
PFC
busted
Private
busted
court martial
stockade
gone

Bring it on down:

airborne
ranger
combat
dark eyed

death
from
above

gone

Hood
sweet young
Hood

You old men satisfied?

Made him a ghost

Sweet young sad eyed GI

gone.

—Richard Wells