Nondescript, muffled sounds
Can penetrate cement and wood
And dirt, but silence dominates
This dank and dreary neighborhood.

Days are long and nights are frigid
Here where I’ve been laid to rest.
I slumber with my Purple Heart
And other medals across my chest.

How fickle life is! Good intentions
And dreams often come to naught.
Too late we learn the consequences
Of trusting all that we were taught.

Alas, the mighty powers that were
Had in mind a contrary plan.
They sent me off to fight their war
In the mountains of Afghanistan.

“When Johnny Comes Marching Home”: my buddies
And I would sometimes sing that song.
But fate presented a different plan
For my return all along.

I "marched" home, although my marching
Was somewhat a paradox:
I came home covered with medals
And lying in a flag-wrapped box.

Medals! Let the generals keep them.  
If I had a choice, I’d rather be
At home playing with my kids
And caring for my family.

-by Bob B (7-23-18)