His sideburns, low shaven, were full and rough,
Displaying well and yet a bitter tease.
On his head the hair wouldn't grow quick enough,
Only longer by reluctant degrees.

Passing unnoted down the street, through the crowd
And thus a certain anonymity bring.
Avoid pointed questions thrown out too loud;
Leave aside any judgment's possible sting.

Charlie creeps low in the bush, moonlit pale;
Chopper comes but too far away to hear;
Bugs buzz loud around the hot jungle trail;
The weight of the gun wet with sweat and fear.

He would cover his head, short hair no more,
Look in the mirror and not see his war.



Harry W. Yeatts Jr.