Styrofoam Cup In Hand

The fowl stench of home

I blame my upbringing for what I’ve done

Or haven’t done.

My dad, doesn’t know what a complaint is.

 

The war didn’t help.

Put voices in my head

Vivid images paint the back of my eyelids

I see friends from long ago

The smell of napalm and jungle still fresh in my nostrils

Drug addiction and artillery shells pepper my dreams

While I curl up behind the coffee shop.

 

Styrofoam cup in hand

Pennies and nickels fall less than they did before

My beard is long now. Children point and laugh

Or stare.

Young gazes burn long after the mom has yanked the child beyond sight.

 

I wish I had friends.

A friend.

Years of solitude take its toll.

Like Narcissus I gaze into the waters of life

Only to see myself, no one new.

Yet, I am not captivated by what stares back at me

An old, bearded man, older beyond my years

And not as wise.

 

Yet, I survive

Alone

In a city of angels,

A “great” city

Yet no angels appear to me.