David R. “Poppa” Alexander


He sets in a small dirty room day after day
A bed, small table and a chair
His only processions is the dirty cloths he wears
Oh yes, and a military issue 45 pistol.

He had a wife and two sons
But after the boys grew up and left he had no reason to go on
Seems like he only forced himself to work so they would have a dad
Soon after they had gone he just left one day.

No word, no note, no nothing; just vanished
He wandered the streets of this strange city for a while
Then he finally got his VA checks forwarded to a mail box
With the little check he pays his rent, buy some beer, a little food and cigarettes.

That has now been over ten years and still he sits and looks out the dirty window
He keeps an old heavy coat that he found to keep him warm
With the sleeve he wipes the window so he can see out;
Children playing in the street, traffic passing by.

He continues to have the nightmares and drinks himself into forgetting.
On occasion he wanders down to the street but never for long.
He day dreams about the life he had, his wife and boys,
It’s better that they don’t know where he is.

As the days turn into weeks the weeks into months, months into years
He sits and drinks, smokes and fondles the gun.
His life is over he thinks, what use am I?
As he continues to sink deeper and deeper into depression

Again he turns and looks out that window and sees people
People going about their lives, productive lives.
Children with hopes and dreams…