Poem - We Old Men

We are now
twenty-seven. The gleam
is gone, the world
is awful, we’ve had no
part in it but picking up
pieces, trying to make whole
people again – of
ourselves, mostly.

Mike, you were the fighter
for those who had no fists,
and I was the voice for the
dumb. How wrong of us
to think anyone gave a damn?

Least of all those we “helped.”
No combat, no blood, but plenty
of gore, the ugliness of human nature
is the challenge of our days –
our nights – and for those who love us.

Products of a bleak time;
the only good left for us is
despair.