Memorial Survival

How small it is,
this bottom of the Dixie cup,
looking skyward,
holding high the torch,
the unemployment check
of another kind.

Held aloft with no regrets,
half-full,
half-empty,
all the same,
someone had to shoulder the orders.

Now in desert camo-dress,
his hand holds forth,
watching fingers pass over,
some manicured with pennies,
some scabbed and scarred with singles,
even children's innocent fingers
dropping nickels and dimes.

Many have acknowledged this,
his back-home identity,
his calling card,
his shingle,
his nameplate.

The mind huddles close now,
few copper and silver,
no blankets of green,
no ingots of gold.

A note floats downward
swathing reality.

“Thank you for your service.
Would you like a job?
What are your skills?
Can you relocate?”

“Sure,” he says,
his eyes upon his severed legs,
each knee protruding,
solitary,
save the Purple Heart pinned securely.

Just let me gather today's windfall, he thinks.
Two pennies,
one nickel,
three quarters,
one subway token.

Relocating again.

Travel.

Enough to get me there.

Pocketing the Dixie cup,
his knuckles pull forward,
surging his mover's dolly,
transporting his hidden hope.

Ahead,
looking back,
his benefactor strides onward,
his missing arm,
yet another lost appendage of honor,
his smile a projection of comradery.

“Not far,” he says…

“Not far.”