Diogonese always worked,
A Soldier, a Sailor, an Airman,
For Queen and Country.
One day tossed aside,
A wound, Mental? Physical?
Pensioned off, sacked.
Down scaling.

He knows no other life,
Guided, pushed and driven.
Only now, loneliness darkens,
around him.
The Politicians have finished,
Cheque mate, pawns discarded.
Just give him his dog and rope,
Stick and bag.

Let him tramp the streets,
Embalmed in the thoughts,
Of who he is,
Was,
Or might be?