The Drawer

Every so often I go through this old drawer,

Bringing back memories of when I fought in the war.

Here is my beret; I wore it with such pride,

It meant I was special, special inside.

Here are my dog tags; I always kept them around,

Still taped together so as to not make a sound.

These are my blood wings; I was one of the best,

I showed them off proudly pinned on my chest.

The Air Medal we got for going in hot,

The Purple Heart for getting shot.

Other medals for the sacrifices I gave,

A picture of Joe who died being brave.

Then there was the Doc who would never stay down,

I can still see his blood staining the ground.

Here is my P-38; I opened many a can,

Only in the ‘Nam would you eat canned spam.

Here is a picture of Sgt Garr,

On his second tour he won the Silver Star.

And there was Irish with his hair so red,

I remember the ambush and then he was dead.

That’s the Lieutenant; he wasn’t a bad guy,

He was the first guy I ever saw die.

I remember the day I returned from the war,

And put my past in this dresser drawer.

Michael D. Monfrooe