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He drifted into town one day.
We didn't ask his name
Or where he came from.
(Some guessed way up north.)
They called him Chico the Wino.

We didn't muse or ponder
That he was some mother's son --
Jack or Joe or Jim or John --
Who went over there
And couldn't go home again.

We didn't know what he did in the war
Or what the war did to him.

We were just boys
Not quite men,
But he let us be his friends.
He was old -- maybe 25.
His hair was thick and white.
We marveled at that
But we didn't ask why.
His skin was smooth and tan
Except for a circle
Where a ring had been.

He wasn't melancholy or grim --
He could tell a lie or spin a yarn
Or joke and laugh with the guys
 (Except for his eyes)

We found him one day on his cot
Clutching his last bottle of Muscatel.
In his other hand an ancient tin
Crammed with medals
And one golden band.

Somewhere a mother mourns
For Jack or Joe or John or Jim --
For the son who went over there
And never came home again.

Somewhere a young bride
Touches the pillow where he had lain --
The lover who never returned --
And weeps for what might have been.

The mother's son,
The young bride's lover
Were lost far away
In a violent land
And now Chico the Wino
Has at last found what he sought;
His war is over; Peace is bought.

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