It’s Memorial Day
and I’m going
to burn meat and eat it.

I know it’s a day
for the war dead.
That’s all I know about it.

I don’t know why
some of them had to die.
Neither did they, not all of them.

There are old men somewhere
who have all the clues.
Some signed the orders

that killed some of the dead.
Some had good reasons, some did not.
Some of the old ones (and some young ones too)

watched their friends die
and I’m sure they understand this
better than I:

sometimes people
have to die.  Sometimes
there’s a compelling reason.

Sometimes people fight over
compelling reasons.  The ones
who sign the orders get to decide.

I don’t know why
it’s come to be a custom
that we burn meat on this day to recall

all those who’ve died.  Don’t know
the compelling reasons for that,
but mine not to question why.

All those dead are dead —
no matter why. The smoke
that lifts from backyards everywhere

might be the right thing to see today
along with fireworks, parades,
uniforms and beer.  Maybe it makes sense

to burn meat on such a day.
Maybe it’s fitting.  I don’t know,
but at least I’m thinking about it.