he presides over the corner of State & Jackson,
daywatch,
not everyday, like some 9 to 5 homeless types,
only on days when the breeze bites -
the better to complement
the cardboard declaration perched on his wheelchair:
"WW II vet - North Africa".
no outstretched hand to impede the flow
no puppy dog eyes from this old soldier -
he just wants cash; shove your pity,
your grudging thanks for a job well done.
alright,
here’s a quarter for French Morocco,
a quarter for Casablanca,
two more for Rabat and Algeria
and a dollar each for your legs.
(did Rommel take them,
    was it diabetes,
    or was it a quart of scotch and a wrong step
    in front of a bus. doesn’t matter)
hell, here’s an extra dollar, for Xmas,
cause we could all be singing carols
in deutsch. some of us, at least.
i hand over the money. we don’t smile.
i step off smartly, merging again into
routine reality,
letting him fade the way old soldiers do;
standing watch, alone.