Things Harry Said
Two blocks away,
lived good old Harry
who found shelter
in his memories of war
in a swinging chair
on his porch, day in, day out.
Passing by his house
going to school in Iowa City, 1969
I saw Harry everyday
watching all corners on guard
to scare away the hunters of life.
Harry always said something
He lamented his life
with one seeing eye, the color
of lemon juice.
“I stole rice and smoked fish
from the dead men’s back packs
but I said a prayer,
I killed many unfamiliar faces
I said prayers for them, too.
but I always heard someone
crying behind the moon.
His wife was content
with Harry’s disability benefits,
cooked him rice and smoked fish
as his mood ran as wild as a river.
Harry’s sorrows were refugees
between the lines of his tear-stained face;
He’d show passers-by a medal of honor
on his vest, flickering like a firefly, at dusk.
Pointing to the trees, with one-armed might, he’d say:
“The ghosts of the past are calling from every rustling leaf.”
“Harry is no more. Something took him last night,” said his wife