Veterans,
return from war
broken, stunned,
unable to navigate
the labyrinth
set up to help,
sit on the floor by the tubes
in the cities:
hey missus, hey mister
gimme, gimme,
give me—SOME—thing;
these lost ones
grab at subway riders,
who shake them off before
diving into the silver skink
that slithers beneath the streets
where they stare at reflections
in muzzy windows,
reappear blinking onto sidewalks,
blind to hypodermics, wine bottles,
grocery carts full of the belongings
of the transparent citizens
they called alkies, druggies, perverts,
crazies, weirdoes,
who are Americans—free
from food and shelter
to sit on steam grates,
freeze in alleys,
lie in doorways,
die in dumpsters.