the young man sat in the dark alley
he nursed his whiskey bottle so well
this was his third night drinking from it
he stared across the alley at the dumpster
but saw one of his last battles
the blinding sun, the thousand-year desert
mud houses for which he wondered
where the water had come from
an idle thought while he fired and ducked
then fired and ducked again
he survived but Emmet didn't
nor Billy T., Red Hanson, or Whatsisname Brooks
they fought all day and most of the night
then it was over and most of them remained
some said they'd won, he tried to see it
the enemy had pinned them down most of a day
then disappeared to show up somewhere else
it seemed a strange kind of victory
when the brass brought him home they said
that we had won over there
it must have been the same kind of victory
his brother soldiers still fought and died
where he had fought and lived
and nothing much had changed for people
who lived in that desert
except we killed more of them
and everyone was poorer except the very rich
he thought somehow in wars before his time
long before his time
victory meant something else
at least the shooting stopped then, didn't it?
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