By J.J. Tindall
MY GOOD WAR
My friend’s father finally
showed me
his medals. His son,
my friend Dan,
a Navy Commander
killed
on September 11th,
had arranged them
in a
frame
some years
ago.
I remember Dan
telling me a story
of his dad laying wounded
in the guts in a barn
in France, but
keep my goddam mouth
SHUT about
it by the way.
In the days
after the attack,
I visited their
home. His dad
answered the door
to their quiet, warm, humble
Naperville home
in tears. Yeah
we wept
some. Then, after conversation and letter reading, suddenly, but quietly,
he brought me
into the dining room.
On the mantle
were his World War II
medals, in a
frame. There were
a lot
of them, I
think more
than Dan
got. “Jesus,”
I thought.
Wide-eyed, dry
eyed, like
I am
right
now.
–
J. J. Tindall is the Beachwood’s poet-in-residence. He can reached at jjtindall@yahoo.com. Chicagoetry is an exclusive Beachwood collection-in-progress.
Posted on February 5, 2008