We take the drugs to calm our nerves.
We bang the gong to reinforce our hearts.
Tomorrow may never come, so we live now.
Too few of us are left.
Some of us are dead.
Some in jail.
Some, still, in Iraq.
Some, still, in Afghanistan.
Others, in exile.

I am in exile. Always exiled.

The Boss recognized my plight.
He allowed a pardon.
I exist now as an honored guest.
Though it is not often I visit, anymore.

When I do, we share the news,

“So and so did such and such and now they’re ______”

News is seldom good:

Dope fiends,

Police,

Crime,

Crime,

Crime,

O.D.

My weary heart bleeds.