Dead At Home

DEAD AT HOME -For Veteran's Day It's a gray day, in the café, by the side of the road. There's an old man, took a firm stand, trying to loosen the load. It is struck luck, with his last buck, but he pays for his soup. He has no wife, all of his life, he is out of the loop. He will bum thumb, in a ride from, here to his cardboard box. There's a sleeping roll, a piece of coal, and a pillow made of rocks. Allegory. No glory. A mad sad told cold story. Alliteration, of an allegation, on how he kills for glory. Then the lie dies, in GI's, when our soldier kills a man. All told, he is not bold, but this tale is secondhand. He preaches whale's tales, of army mad males, as he calls for his god. Then he dreams schemes, of the war machines, and ghosts that run him odd. Then he weeps sleeps, and a secret keeps, and he hates the morning light. He has lost his place, in the human race, and he always will take flight. He will dine fine, on the red wine, which he drinks from a paper cup. He will watch stars, and count his scars, but his heart has given up! Allegory. No glory. A mad sad told cold story. Alliteration, of an allegation, on how he kills for glory. Then the lie dies, in GI's, when our soldier kills a man. All told, he is not bold, but this tale is secondhand. -Edlynn Nau