Riding a memory wave deep into the past
knowing so little,wishing that people would last;
unsubscribed from all doctrines of peculiar self,
I fight the mood swings, welcome the dark daze
of these November days.
I freeze at the mention of a murder in the park.
Loving the addicts who plague us without hope,
forgetting our beginnings, that this life’s on a slope
that takes us to nowhere, imagined or lived;
soldiers in uniform, do we truly know what they did?
Who were the people dodging the blitz?
Women in headscarves with lipstick on lips
cigarette smoking, a dozen a dime, imagine
the throbbing for Yankee stockings and rhyme
as girls catch the eyes of the negro GIs.
Fun during war is a prerequisite for life 
alcohol, Glenn Miller, that Iowa boy,
and all that jazz. War is truly, truly mad.

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