Epitaph For a Survivor
The trigger was jammed and he prayed to the gods of war
For another bullet before he would say Farewell to Arms
Now he sits at Times Square begging for a few measly coins
Carries his memories and belongings on his scarred back
Rocks forward and backward and the screams never leave
They call him a hobo and drunkard and dislike his fragrance
Of destitution and bombed shelters with nowhere left to go
He wears a ragged bandana and lonely blood-stained stigma
Has sold his Purple Heart for a couple of meals at the food bank
Reminds himself that orders were orders and trenches are deep
With some luck they will scrape his remains off the highway to hell
Remove the obstacle of odorous self-righteousness from the streets
Plant a few poppies next to a crumbling cross bearing no name
And fool themselves that glorious battles reap sustainable death
24th December 2019
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