Maybe you will.
Maybe you will always think about it,
As we drive down I-95 on a weekend
Through states that are American and
Familiar and comforting with strip malls hanging
Off the sides of the highway likes fluorescent trees,
This constant reminder that it is over and you are home.
Maybe it does not matter if you tell me the whole story
Or what I say to you or how much I tell you that you can’t.
You cannot carry it anymore, maybe it will never matter.
Maybe this highway will always be that highway, the one
With you in your unarmored Jeep driving the Death road
Out of Kabul, next to a vehicle matching the description
Of a VBIED, sticking to your left side, and not letting go,
Like something was going to happen, like this was it,
Your turn, your day to die, and how you cut off traffic
Flying off to the right, onto the shoulder, putting a truck
In between you and the bomb that maybe, maybe went off,
And maybe the driver, the man in the truck in between,
Maybe you will never forget him, no matter what I say,
No matter what.