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