This is a repost of a powerful poem by my late uncle John Gilmore, who was a US Marine in Vietnam, a substance-abuse counselor in civilian life, and a gifted poet in both realms.

A STATISTIC OF ONE
by John Gilmore

Pardon me, but which way is home from here?
the clocks click off slow seconds. It’s getting near
time for the pilot to rev the engines up. A soft
lump rises in my throat as other choppers loft
into the innocent blue of a spring sky. It’s fear

that lump. Hell yes, God knows I am afraid,
of who or what is a political riddle. i am made
of human stuff like you not hero stuff. See this tear
slide down my face? Which way is home from here?

pardon me, but which way is home from here?
the clocks are normal. Patrol’s ended. It would appear
we won this time. Heads of state are all who know
but the unanswered names of our dead friends show
we didn’t completely win. It’s comical now, the fear

i felt this morning sweating silently in the middle
of a bamboo stand. A vc was so close i saw spittle
fly from his mouth as a round struck behind his ear.
it’s a job, but oh my God, which way is home from here?

pardon me, but which way is home from here?
time is dragging her feet again today, Christ that beer
we left last night sure would hit the spot right now.
staccato crashes of smallfire. A scream. And for a while
beers are forgotten. For Christmas later on this year

santa Claus will be missing. On the morning report it read
(k.i.a.) yet no mention of how horribly santa bled
and died. No matter how much i fight this fear
it seems the dead are all who know, the way home from here.