The chaos of the bar
never bothered Jamie
who sat night after night
on a stool at the end
downing shot after shot.
A hero. A superman
in boots and utes
fighting for God and country;
conviction absolute,
his cause justified.
Countless black ops later,
honorably discarded
and drooping with medals,
Jamie sheltered at his local,
the whimpering grunts of the dying
and boom of flash bangs
in amber waves of whiskey,
the burning swigs painful reminders
his blood didn’t seep into the fine, red sand.


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