They buried him at Calverton,
the sky provided tears.
His mourners were the Few, the Proud.
No next of kin appeared.
For years he’d wandered City Streets,
a casualty of war.
The V.A. patched his injuries,
they couldn’t bandage what he saw.
The State had little use for him,
once the Peace accords were signed
His tiny pension was just enough
to purchase anodyne.
The blessings of a dreamless sleep,
He sometimes found in wine.
Otherwise he was on night patrol
With friends he’d left behind.
It’s hard to live civilian life,
His haunted mind was too far gone.
His body slept in Central Park
while his soul patrolled Khe San.
Then one night, more cold then most,
that solider finally yields.
She found him, dead, beneath the bridge
That he’d called “home” for years.
That kindly New York City Cop,
who knew he was a Vet,
arranged a simple funeral.
-That’s more than many get.
Present, aim, ready, fire!
They fire three quick rounds.
Accompanied by a tape of “Taps”
They commit him to the ground.