Heroes

We like our heroes quiet, in the center of the park

On stonily ferocious horses,

Fifty years after the great battle.

We like our heroes in parades, on wide crowd-lined boulevards,

sanitized and starched,

with shiny boots and empty weapons.

We like our heroes names adorning bridges and buildings, keeping the hapless,

homeless vets from sight with extra enforcement personnel

We like our heroes disarmed, their weapons,

memories and dog-tag tied boots

left in the rice paddies and highlands

Native tribes welcomed home their warriors with feasting and singing

but, before returning to the circle,

ritual sweats and washings were necessary

to cleanse the stench of spilled blood

from flesh and nostrils.

We like our heroes best with pristine white crosses and stars

marching in stone gardens

in ever such straight and ordered rows,

clear to a horizon.

We like not our heroes of Vietnam who built a wall, a scar upon the land,

listing day by day the falling of comrades;

which is attended by a rabble

at all hours night and day,

who leave awards, poetry,

and a part of their hearts to be healed...

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