The Winter of 1967

Winter of 1967

I stroke my newborn’s downy head
And move the diaper underneath his chin
To catch the milk that dribbles out
As fast as it goes in.
Finally he’d made it home.
He had to weigh five pounds before they’d let him come.

He is a sleepy boy at 5 a.m.,
And I am sleepy too.
The television’s on to keep me company.
Each morning starts this way.
The weather will be 51 and cloudy.
Yesterday
Fifteen Americans were killed
In a battle near Da Nang.
Twenty-seven of the enemy went down.

I stroke my baby’s velvet cheek. Wake up and drink.
Grow strong.
We watch the war go on.
Day after day:
9 Americans were killed in a skirmish
In which 44 enemy soldiers died.
3 of ours, but 22 of theirs.
11 of ours, but 65 of theirs.
Every day, every day.
What kind of winning is this?

Everyday we thank the Lord
We didn’t see you die today.
Come home, soldier, come home
And hold your baby son.