FIRE IN THE HOLE

FIRE IN THE HOLE
The old veteran,
With his cheap suit and dulled war medals
Sat ringing the bell at the exit to the store,
Hoping to get a few more donations before closing time,
Before the holiday revelers put away their wallets,
In anticipation of their spring credit card bills,
And everyone having a great excuse to say,
"Don't got no change" to the amputee on the sidewalk,
Who served so well in the Middle East, but not
On their way to the nearest sports bar.
The old veteran,
Had such tired eyes, not just worn out by the visions of war,
But dried out by a billion tears he had cried trying to reconcile 
His sacrifice with the looks of amusement and ignorance,
So many people gave him, looking at his medals, at his scars,
As if the wounds of war were an added attraction,
On their way to the parking lot with their groceries,
Their children screaming bloody murder,
For not getting the candy bars they wanted,
The parents on their cell phones, giggling at the old lady,
Who forgot how to open the cashier's drawer, 
Five years past her retirement, one year before her death.
The old veteran, despite all of this, kept ringing his bell,
Kept hoping the pain he had suffered, the friends he had lost,
To that evil threatening the planet so long ago,
Would not be forgotten, before another generation of children,
Were groomed to take his place in another battlefield, 
Far from the comfortable confines of a plastic-wrapped grocery store,
Where the beneficiaries of peacetime prosperity and bliss,
Would be exposed once again to the misery, the disembowelment, the abomination of life in the guts of a world gone mad.
Lawrence Lannoo