There is an old man
who sits on the park bench.
Daily.
He feeds the pigeons
with a disturbed look in his eyes.
Fear.
He still hears it, you know.
It’s never gone away.
Engraved.
He still hides sometimes
from the pain.
Bullets.
He did a favor
for us and for our country.
Bravely.
He has been back for years
yet he has never returned.
Psychologically.
He is plagued by ringing
of gunshots and bombs.
Screaming.
Brothers haunt him
who couldn’t be saved.
Regretfully.
He is a good man.
A loving man.
Honorable.
And when he is to die
It will not be of old age.
Broken-hearted.
How was he to know
fighting and looking for peace
would leave him so lost.
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