on the side of the road

he was an older guy. wore a tweed jacket with leather patches affixed to the elbows. a family man.
no terrorist.
just a guy, maybe like you or me and he was caught up.
probably forced into it.
his AK was old and rusty. doubt it could fire straight.
and even if it did, i doubt he would employ it properly.
from the hip.
i saw this guy.
an older guy.
with the tweed jacket.
leather affixed to the elbows.
somewhere near the town of al nasiriyah.
alongside several of his compatriots.
dead.
on the side of the road.
still steaming,
pupils wide and starry
an agglomeration of red and white and many other things not fit for writing.
yet i wouldn't have known he was a man at all, if it wasn't for the helmet adjacent to his person.
because he was a mess of meat.
there on the side of the road.
the older guy.
a teacher?
engineer?
botanist?
i don't know.
but he had a family.
this mess of meat.
i know.
i saw.
in his helmet.
they stood-his family.
stoic arabs.
not one smiling.
apparently he had placed a picture of his family inside his helmet.
and i found it.
sometimes i wished i had kept the picture.
i dont know why.
its probably better i didnt.
it would keep me up at night.
but i did look.
an odd sight.
one day you're taking pictures in your tweed jacket, the next day you're festering on the side of the road-a robust meal for dogs and crows.
well, it was the heat of battle, so i couldn't stay and philosophize about this poor bastards life-i had to liberate.
from what?
hell if i know.

'their's not to reason why/
their's but to do and die'

those answers are left to the officers.
the rumsfelds. the mcnamaras.
those ivy league fuckheads with the plan.
or cute little rabid girls with the audacity to hope.
and us; well, we deal.
we get caught up.
just like my guy on the side of the road.
i still have his helmet.
i took it.
its in my garage.
up high.
hanging from a black nail. in the dark.
so far removed from where i got it.

on the side of the road.