My Grandfather fought for a country
getting through every theater of war twice.
I used to lie in bed hearing his stories
of a battlefield worldwide.
He told us of a people united;
covering each other with blankets,
sacrificing for the next man,
looking out for neighbor’s children.
I dream of visiting this land of stories
but the road to that place is lost
hidden under graveyards,
skyscrapers and newspapers.
At every corner is a liquor store
a post of road signs pointing
in eight separate ways.
I wonder what he thinks as he looks down on us.
The country he helped build while he was alive
faded away while we slept with our TVs on.