Battlefield
by John Grey
The guy was drunk,
completely out of control.
He busted two glasses,
turned over a table,
was on course to demolish the place.
Someone said,
he’d just returned
from his fourth deployment
to the Middle East.
Their sympathy gave him space
until broken shards
started flying in their direction.
The bartender grabbed hold of him
and the guy broke down,
muttered something about bombs
and buddies blown to bits.
We sat him a chair,
ground zero for sobbing.
Someone called his wife.
With help from one or two of us,
she dragged him to the car,
shoveled him onto the back seat
like a package.
The bartender cleaned up.
The rest of us finished
our drinks in silence,
then departed.
That was the night
the war came to our little town.
The battlefield’s name
was Richard.
completely out of control.
He busted two glasses,
turned over a table,
was on course to demolish the place.
Someone said,
he’d just returned
from his fourth deployment
to the Middle East.
Their sympathy gave him space
until broken shards
started flying in their direction.
The bartender grabbed hold of him
and the guy broke down,
muttered something about bombs
and buddies blown to bits.
We sat him a chair,
ground zero for sobbing.
Someone called his wife.
With help from one or two of us,
she dragged him to the car,
shoveled him onto the back seat
like a package.
The bartender cleaned up.
The rest of us finished
our drinks in silence,
then departed.
That was the night
the war came to our little town.
The battlefield’s name
was Richard.
John Grey is an Australian poet, US resident, recently published in Penumbra, Poetry Salzburg Review and Hollins Critic. His latest books include “Leaves On Pages” and “Memory Outside The Head” are available through Amazon. He has work upcoming in Lana Turner and Held.