Poem- Ex-Hero
Ex-Hero
He’s sitting alone, crumpled
Cup in his hand, frost rimming the
Seat of his pants, since he’s the only one
Brave enough, lonely enough, to
Sit outside Starbucks in February.
I’m not a coffee-drinker, but something
Intrigues me about this worn-out, stubble-
Faced man, nursing his Styrofoam cup like a new
Father would his fifth child, pared down on his daily
Deposit of love after fifteen years.
He could tell stories, I’m sure, if anyone sat
Down to listen. Stories of glory for everyone
But him, as he searched for his eye in the sphere of the
Sight, as the tanks roared too loud for the
Cries to keep up with, ‘till there were none left at all.
I could hear them, I’m sure, if he shaved off those black
Hairs sprouting from the turf of his well-worn face, if I could
Pick out a colour for the remorse in his eyes, which right now
Hangs between crimson and blue. I could love this ex-hero, if we ever
Stopped to chat, perhaps.
Or I could do what I do, which is to walk right
Past him and slip into PetSmart, where Fido and
Mr. Meow will be my sources of warmth for the day, for the
Night when I take home overflow from the kennels and imagine how an
Ex-hero would feel for nobody at all.