2.26.2018

in wartime guns rattle,

ied’s level the guys next

to you, and some come

home in pieces,

while others in only guises

and varieties of a whole.

why me, why not me

why them, and I’m

still here

haunts;

survivor guilt infecting

the soul.

late in life it strikes again

about friends who ended up,

at the side of the park

we played cards in and smoked

as wanna-be-thugs,

with a needle in their arm;

or just fell down between

the stacks in college

for no apparent reason

still dressed in their

three-piece suit.

not to mention all the poor

and hungry and bombed

and tortured and maimed

in all those other parts

of the world

or just down the street.

and why me, why not me

why them, and I’m

still here

still haunts.

survivor guilt.

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