Each day a letter comes
Each night it goes unread
Sometimes they stack up like moldy bread
But each week they’re burned in a drum

The weather says clear, but the sky’s need to cry
Poison in the air has taken many lives
Even us here have to learn to survive
On planes the bodies are sent back of the ones who died

I try for a walk and see his shadow
I don’t get far but down the street
To an old coffee shop where we would meet
I order a drink and watch the crows

On my walk home, the trees look bare
The concrete is growing strong on the grass
And the flags are all set to half mass
In the mailbox, is a letter from Vietnam; with a slight tear