My family forked mashed potatoes, peas,
and Salisbury steak from Swanson’s TV dinners
served on TV trays as a reporter’s urgent voice

narrated poorly filmed scenes: green blur of jungle,
young men toting guns and ammo, helmets heavy.
I read comics as I ate: Batman, Richie Rich,

Sad Sack. What did Vietnam have to do with me?
After school, Keith K. and I played with army men
of metallic blue and olive green, the two sides

in their enmity poured from the same mold
and striking the same poses. A sniper crawled
supine, a soldier raised a bayonet overhead,

one took a knee to steady his bazooka, another flung
a grenade. Some merely marched, weapons slung
over shoulders. Others hunched over rifles,

and their leader wielded only a pistol. In battle,
Keith and I made spitty sounds of gunfire,
hurled dirt clods, and detonated bombs

deep in our throats. We never dreamed up
reasons for our fighting. We just went at it,
gung-ho. Our war was endless

entertainment—until, come suppertime,
our parents called us in. We never declared
who won or lost—soon, our truce would end,

our make-believe resume. I collected my little men
and hosed them clean, while Keith, who’d ground
his troops into the dirt to hide them,

couldn’t find them all. He left them buried.
Maybe they’d turn up tomorrow, maybe not.
What did we know of war? It strikes me,

these years later, Keith’s grasp was far superior.
What happened during. What came after.