Faye Sizemore

WHAT THE WIND KNOWS

A cold wind seeks its lonely path
down the city’s concrete corridors
and like a lover coming home creeping
snuggles up to a man who sinks farther down
against the alley wall in his ragged vest and shivers

The chilly evening is still young
but there is not much to stay awake for
when you are a street bum
The last drop is gone from the bottle
Now sleep is the only defense he has
against the ever recurring scenes

Memories of combat, another far away fight for life
Too much, too much, not far enough down the line
He still hears the screams; still sees the dying
and the ones begging for death, dear Lord, dear Lord
VA would take him in, but no, he’s not going through that again

He could go down to the corner and tell another Vietnam story
If his tale is interesting enough he can get a swig on their bottle
just enough to loosen his tongue some more
But lately the dreams of the things he remembers
are starting to last longer and are getting stronger
so he just hunkers down and looses himself in the wind’s caress