THE VET
His home a discarded cardboard box
on a dingy skid row city street,
a pair of ragged combat boots
covers his weary aching feet.
Tattered fatigue pants and jacket
the only clothes he has to wear,
and old olive drab army blanket
protects him from the cold night air.
In silence he sips the bitter nectar
of memories from glories past
and wonders how long this misery
of his homeless world will last.
He remembers past days of glory
fighting for freedom around the world,
now gone are days filled with honor,
his life spinning in a downward twirl.
Slowly he opens the old cigar box
containing all his worldly gear,
thumbs through an old picture book
as he quietly sheds another tear.
Sifting through his stack of medals
once proudly worn on his chest,
he clutches close the old bronze star
won in combat as America's best.
The next time you pass him by
sitting there, alone in deep despair,
don't point and stare and mock him,
be kind, show him you really care.
For you know not brave deeds of valor
or the battles he's fought for you,
remember but for the grace of God,
there you could be sitting too.