boneyards of men

Diem and I sat on top of a concrete bunker
while the eastern sun was slipping low
talking about living life in a war zone
when there was no where else to go.
we shared a smoke
and a view of the razor-sharp barbed wire;
we listened to nearby water buffalo cries
and heard distant artillery fire.
Apache helicopters flying low and fast slapped the air.
soldiers walked to pull guard.
he dreamed of having a bar of soap for his wife;
i dreamed of having a bar-be-cue in my small town backyard:
but there were no treasure chests in these foothills;
no liberty bells ringing for hearts yearning to be free;
no light at the end of a tunnel;
only boneyards of men who had ceased to be,
now lost shadows like ghosts wandering about
perhaps along the DMZ
or on the lazy current of the indifferent Saigon River
or inside a Buddhist temple or behind a plantation rubber tree.
who knows which way it goes?
when the cigarette ends and fighting men go their separate ways,
noticing each misfortune or thankful for the luck of the draw,
and a short-timer's calendar is ticking down the remaining days
for the survivors,
who when the lights are off and the room goes black,
remember a napalmed young girl's skin
melting off her back.