As I sat on the couch,
she tended to the photograph
of the man in Army-issue uniform.
Her husband had died. As details emerged,
a hero rose up in the room
defying gravity and death.
More time elapsed. Emboldened
by several beers, I wrapped an arm around her.
But she had to go and tell me his rank.
And how many of the enemy he wasted
before a lucky shot took him out.
I didn’t think the war had anything to do with me.
But that soldier wouldn’t leave me in peace
and, bolstered by heavy artillery and air support,
he took out every beachhead I tried to establish.
As soon as I started thinking in battle terms,
the war was lost.