His head rests on a cement pillow, sprays of chips in his skin,
If he can make it through the night, it would begin all over again.
Some old rags found in a heap among the dirt and grit,
He would use it for his cover. It did help just a little bit.
They were not blankets. Just rags of various size
He scattered them over his body trying to hold the tears in his eyes.
How had he come to this? How had he fallen so low?
He huddled against the wall as a harsh wind began to blow.
Closing his eyes, he let the memories travel his mind.
He served his country leaving his old life behind.
He tucked his frozen fingers, in the pockets of his raggedy jeans,
And remembered his last meal of corn bread, potatoes, and green beans.
His mama had made it before he crossed the seas.
She had died after he left. He shivered. Was it heartache or the breeze?
Once he had been neat and clean -shaven showers every day,
After his return he held no job, no money to make his way.
He had served his country, fought for freedom for all,
But no one cared. Perhaps that was his downfall.
The darkness fell upon him and the chill set in for the night.
He closed his eyes and prayed for a warm sun come daylight.
He dozed fitfully stretching his legs, the rags were gone,
He turned on his side. Probably someone else that needed a home.
He huddled and shivered then cried when the rains came,
He dreamed from far away that someone remembered his name.
© Cynthia Clark