PTSD

He was a Vietnam veteran
who lived in a convertible van
in the city of San Fran.

On good days he'd smile
and hand out pile after pile
of candies to the children
not caring if they were vile.

People said he walked with a hobble
Wobble, hobble, wobble.

People said he lost his leg in the war
'Cos it was shot off by a buck-toothed vietcong.
Battered, bulleted beyond repair
The pain, he got a fair share.

He used his wooden leg
whom he affectionately named "Meg"
to walk around, head held high
as if he wore a crown.

On bad days he would see someone with buck teeth
And rage.
His anger forming a page
That goes up in flames,
flying away
Show-casing his pain.

Then he cools down
Knits his brows in a frown
And buckle like he was going to drown.