he spoke in the parlance
of a mustachioed middle-aged man,
like so many other midwestern boys
who worshipped their fathers-
all horseshit and tough guy,
like mike ditka at nineteen-

i could see him
in the rice paddies
of vietnam,
his helmet too big,
nervously talking to
the older boys around him
about jimi hendrix,
trying to hide
the fact that he was
scared
out of his mind-

i could see him
fighting the hadjis
in iraq,
taking videos
and sending them home
via the internet,
using his grown-up words
and the body he thought
must prove his manhood
as a shield
so his mother would never know
how terrified
her boy truly was-

she knew,
his father knew-
i knew,
even though we were
just sitting outside
an apartment building
in chicago
waiting for a girl
to show up
and pay us
to load a truck-

we are children
for much longer
than we think.