War Heroes

War Heroes Between black wheel tarmac the crossing reflects a figure in polished paint at the stagger of his old loose feet crosses the barrier of traffic with the beacons conversation meaning nothing its flashing occupation signals his lolled neck stumbling sucks the bottle for one last time and forgets Sighting on blurred reactions sipping the spit of his dribble he stares at his daughter mannequin wincing past his performance begging her to listen while her attention is fixed ahead the traffic rolls slick full of monoxide toxic breathes the waste of her distress she ignores the principal wave of his bottle releasing her breath with the clutch the zebra smells like a mouse trap the white ladder bars and black adder cars bump pristine edges on his boots he sways across The market trolleys squeak echoes the ache she steps on tender ankles swollen while he eases her past the cardboard the plastic bags of her life crammed to full the tatters of memories she thinks of china cups and lost children on blazing streets that lived on rations Some where in her mind he is a hero medals adorning his battered uniform the traffic roars as loud as the blitz some where in his mind he sees her yellow skin the gunpowder struggle and the munitions factory have worn away her beauty but still her eyes are sweet and lovely and the traffic blasts like the blitz on the people they were before