I wrote this several years ago, it’s part of a chapbook called Finding The Way Home.
An aged man is but a paltry thing, a tattered coat upon a stick. Yeats
Old soldiers from all our modern wars
crowd into the same slice of time,
-in Veteran’s Hospitals,
mutely bonded by losses,
-empty spaces that surround
and define us.
Sitting on an uncomfortable island of vinyl
awash in a surf-rolling susurrus of voices,
cocooned inside my silence,
untouched by misery and despair
swirling in the crowded air like cigarette smoke,
stinging exposed nerves.
I felt the touch of ancient eyes
like a man afraid to look in a mirror
after long, dark nightmares.
How big a man he was, I’ll never know.
He stared out at me from the hillock
his loose white shirt and brown suit made,
stuffed into the seat of…
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