The city is littered with ancient men
In giant suits -
Wandering, swaying, muttering to themselves.
They are confused and lost in concrete valleys:
Scruffy, errant mutes
Wobbling through the downtown crowds.
Sometimes they march around, these old soldiers.
But their own salutes
Mock them as they remember old wars.
Now, even peace is fraught with battles,
Still, they are resolute
As they shuffle past stark, neon corridors
Into the jangled night of the city.
These straggly troops
Will thin out later, shuffling till they drop.
Morning will eventually liberate them
But may constitute
Little more than one last stand on a lonely street.
by Phil Brown
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Copyright © Phil Brown