I walk, post-war, with ignoble carriage and 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.