Sgt. Jack came back
from overseas
and he didn’t give one.
He’d sit outside his backdoor
for hours popping caps,
swilling cheap beer,
smoking Camels
with his rifle at the ready nearby,
a forty-five in his belt.

He’d yell at his dog constantly,
expecting it to respond
in a friendly manner,
but the rocks
he had thrown at it
over time
had spooked it
into a submissive role.

He never said much,
just stared,
stared with wild blood-shot eyes
that darted to and fro into space.
He’d nervously look at the horizon
as if something was always about to happen.
His favorite line was,
“Lock and loaded, let’s move.”
And when a car would backfire,
he’d scream, “Incoming!”

His wife left him for his best friend,
his kids never came back around,
and his dog died without him moving a muscle.
The ****** thing decomposed
right out in the middle of his backyard.
I guess he was used to
the sweet smell of death.