You showed me his gift
a ball point pen with a little light in it
so he could write letters in his tent
after the daily rounds of patrols
and open conflicts in the jungles of Vietnam.
After the sun set
when thoughts of you kept him awake.
He could make love to you with his words
writing about his feelings
and your future together.
I watched you wrap the gift
in brown paper from a grocery sack,
printing his address in large block letters
placing scarlet kisses beside his name
then sending it off with enough time
to arrive before his nineteenth birthday.
I didn’t see you for several days
so I went to your house
and found you disheveled and tear stained
the gift unopened lay beside you
with the words, “Undeliverable
Return to Sender."
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