Chico the Wino

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.