Old Soldier

He welcomes me again.

I tell him where I’ve been;

he has been nowhere else.

And I rest my head and wait in

darkness as he talks of pineapple.

He recounts Hawaii and every

car he ever owned. Veterans

linger with memories random

as bingo. He asks if I have ever

been in a jet. He asks me if my

hands are still cold. I feed him

bites of ice cream and hear

someone swear down the hall.

He says bananas grow upwards.

I say my hands are warm now.

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I happened upon this by pure chance and have been touched by its simple haiku-like images of a decaying mind packed with rich memories, now strewn randomly across this old soldier’s inner landscape. Beautifully done, thanks.

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