Care Package

I walk, post-war, 
        with ignoble carriage
                and this sheepish hunch

as if rucked-under 
        by flak-heavy packs 
                of hot laughing sands

that don’t have to 
        worry about missing  
                any of the coming fights

and drift to me like
        a sarcastic care package 
                sent the wrong way

by the desert to say 
        what comfort is home 
                and here have these

grit-bloody cookies and
        this hilarious picture 
                of me with three of your 

buddies from when you 
        were still in. Remember them?
                Guess which one is still alive.

But everything’s fine and 
        even when I really try
                I sleep alright and

the nightmares don’t come.
	But the packages do
		with fresh loads of jokes 

from a desert that mocks me
	like people telling stories 
                about a party that I missed.