never thought I would stand in one, a homeless octogenarian who doesn't like soup
the library serves sandwiches, Eden’s apples too, on Mondays, but gray Sundays they are closed, so here I be at a holy house
that feeds beggars, bankers and ******, but only after servicing our souls, with etudes on eternity and other hymns to which I am deaf
tomorrow I will visit the VA for my monthly meds, free potions to pacify me while I wait for a bed in the shiny new castle, forever being built
in the meantime, I get the shed behind the shack, of another "brother" who tells me war stories
that can't be true, since he was but ten and two when the last bird chopped its way into the Saigon sky
the embassy below yet teeming with ghosts, and the screaming hordes, scurrying still in a conquered land, desperate victims of our proud command
I don't tell him he does not speak the truth, for he gets even more potent pills than I to keep his demons at bay
today the broth has chicken and rice, and our platoon slurps in unison after another plaintive prayer to a god I never knew
tomorrow, over my white bread and bologna, we will be able to sup in silence, in the calm cathedral of tomes
where I will try in vain to comprehend the mystic Kabbalah, or perhaps read The Grapes of Wrath to hoist healing hope of suckled redemption before my ancient eyes