I stand before a graveyard stone

and try to imagine success.

You know the kind –

where generals fail but privates triumph.

I repeat

for the sake of the conscience

grinding in my thoughts —

success is cold and it's fragile,

can strike against you

if the ones like me don't live up to it.

You, father,

imagine success in the world

where no one else

is buried here,

a bullet in one leg,

a pin in the other,

a mustached soldier

fifty years to the good

of carrying his babies.