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
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