having a long conversation

with a vet

at the music store, his stories are endless

not of vietnam, but of the musicians he's known

so many wasted lives he says

burnt-out cases

there is no one he hasn't played with

no one he hasn't roadied

or run the light and sound board, shared the perks of the road

he's barely here, rambling, almost incoherent

but he's held it together

producing a documentary on the era he knew, not of vietnam

but the trail of bodies left behind in this country

he sighs and hands me his favorite pick, a red one