To Sergeant Larry Canon

To Sergeant Larry Canon:

A stranger approaches a man in uniform
to shake his hand and say,
“Thank you, son, for your service.”

Outwardly, he is polite, appreciative.
Inside, the words find no target.
They just ricochet in a cavity.

Spent ammunition.

He remembers.
The family in the car.
How the mother in the front seat
cradled her baby like they were both
still alive.

In the back seat, a lucky find—
two kids still breathing;
Their shock-voided eyes
the open shutters of an abandoned house.

What they will be when they grow up?
Do they understand “collateral damage?”
The dead don’t haunt him
so much as the living. 

His command had thought the car was a bomb
Through a radio he had helped relay the order.
Accidents happen in wartime.

Don’t they?

He doesn’t want to be called a hero.
He doesn’t want to be thanked.
He just wants to forget.

But he remembers.