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Patrick (poem)

By W. D. Ehrhart

He can't get out of his head the horrors he's seen
picking the pieces up and stuffing them back.
Like Lady Macbeth, his hands will never be clean.

But not like her: she murdered a king;
he was only an army medic, but now
he can't get out of his head the violence he's seen.

He only tried to put the pieces back
into broken bodies. It wasn't his fault,
but now he thinks his hands will never be clean.

His unit invaded Fallujah;
urban fighting's as ugly as fighting gets.
He can't get out of his head the havoc he's seen.

He can't sit still or even look at his hands.
He tried to save his friends, the dead and the maimed.
Now he's sure his hands will never be clean.

The army said he was fine and sent him home
with so much blood his hands will never be clean.
The VA gives him pills. Frozen in time,
he can't get out of his head the carnage he's seen.

—W.D. Ehrhart