On Leave Poem by Ima Ryma

</>My son was home on leave far from
The daily dangers he had known
In Afghanistan. He had come
Safely back home from that war zone.
We were sitting on the front stoop,
Talking about the neighborhood,
About the kids in his old group.
Just having him home was so good.
Two cars came screeching down the street.
As they drove by, there came the sound
Of gunfire. I jumped to my feet.
My son was lying on the ground.

Some stray bullet from some punk's gun
Struck and killed my home on leave son.