For Don, Who Slept through the War

When I was a boy, waking my uncle
Was dangerous, his fists flew out
In every direction, like a stunt man
Falling over a balcony. No angle
Was safe. Best to stand at a distance,
In the door best of all, and call with mock
Authority, wait, then call again, until,
Arms pumping, he rose from his elected
Hibernation, groggy as spring’s
Obligatory bear.
        Now dead
For thirteen years. And I have turned
The age he was when I first woke him up,
Laughing at his startled arms, doughy eyes.
And waking up I have socked three things
In so many days, the bedside table,
The wall, my headboard.
           I grieved for him,
Killed in his tent, heavily asleep
In a war so casual nobody stood
In the door to call with even mock
Authority when the mortar fire
Walked through his camp.
           But all domains
Reverse themselves; only one click left
On the mortar sight, he would have lived;
Just as now at home I too am stunned
When waking before I have seen
Who calls
     I turn hilarious
Yet incapable of laughter, staggering
Approximation of myself,
Eyes unfocused while something strong
Dogs my joints and, unbuckling forward,
I smile fuzzily, answering yes,
Yes, for as long as I possibly can.