Missing Names

By David J. Walker

Would he find it odd
That a cousin whom he saw only
A handful of times in his life
Remembered him, was thinking of him
almost 50 years
After his death?
Mike Kidd, the boy  7 or 8 years
Older than us,
Tall  and          quiet,
Steel blue eyes like his Dad
And Skinny
Played penny anti poker with us
On Saturday nights in the small farmhouse
Out in the middle of  nowhere New Mexico
He stayed and played when he wasn’t out
Playing his electric guitar with friends.

The announcement in the paper
That I found only recently
Said little of his life or death
Born in 1948, Died in 1973
He was  Veteran of the Vietnam War and
A Member of the VFW
It said nothing of his two tours
In the door of a Huey
Manning the M-60 machinegun
It said nothing of his
Home coming
And soon divorcing
It said nothing of his suicide
Out on the farm
It had no note of PTSD

Who was not wounded by Vietnam?
A small nick here, a scratch or two there,
an arm, a leg a purple heart a missing lung 
Perhaps the worse wounds were in the head.
Those seemingly and purposely that
left you undead. 
And then those of kin left behind
the kind of wounds that transcend
oceans and time
 A father a mother a sister a brother
A young cousin or a friend
In the end, it was nothing
more or less a wound from Vietnam
that still carries millions to
their graves
There is no room for all who
Deserve to have their names
On the wall

****

David J. Walker is currently semi-retired from a 40-year career in broadcasting and Broadcast Journalism and is working on an MFA at Texas Tech University. He volunteered for the active duty army in 1972. Assigned to 1st Armored Division Ansbach West Germany. Suffered injuries while on active duty, now classified as a Disabled Veteran He has been writing, but not sharing, poetry and short stories since he was 13 years old. David lives in Lubbock, Texas and is a married father and grandfather.