Forgotten Soldier, Forgotten


Sunday obituary read simply:
SGT S. Johnson
date, time, place
telephone number
Simplicity would be him.
If it were him.
Saying ‘if’ keeps ‘was’ at bay.

Common man with a common name.
There could be regiments or battalions
companies for every letter Johnson.
SGT S. Johnson, squad leader, Sierra Company
Sierra for Sams and Steves and Shawns.

Three inches by three inches
of courtesy space in newspaper grey
holds no answers.
The questions required to get my answers
are too many past the first.
“The Army?”   Yes, ma’am.
“The war?”  No, ma’am.
“Why not?”  Click.

Pressed greens still stand
silent sentry.  Forgotten
by a man himself forgotten.
Five years, two wars.
A long time to shine
unworn boots.
Old habits.

For certainty
I would have to pay the ferryman
the last coppery cent of hope
clenched in my palm.
Sweaty.  Hot.  But mine.
To just glimpse a passenger on
his dark skiff.

If it could be,
I might trade my ticket home
for a bullet
and a three inch square printing
an old friend would find.
Would he know me there
as I don’t know him here?
Is there a stranger in the dark
somewhere a thousand miles from now
who would in turn
agonize over my fate
in case he’d ever known me?


                T. Scott Fisher