A fellow stands in tattered flannel...
I can only presume he is cold. Everyday I drive past him, standing at the bottom of the exit ramp off of 465. He holds a sign that says

"Nam Vet God Bless America".

I think what he meant to write was;

"I still remember. I can't stop still remembering.
I tried selling cars but the shelling wouldn't stop and I don't trust a foreign car to protect me when it's raining hell on my head. I don't understand why no else was running, I don't understand why they weren't afraid of the mortar, the shrapnel, the napalm. It was as if I was the only with a mouth full of ash and eyes full of ignominy .
I tried selling insurance, but you can't trust anyone, no, you never know if they're going to turn you in, turn you out, turn on you.
I tried selling my soul, but Beelzebub shuddered and looked away.

And now, I just want someone to look me in the eye. Just one last hot cup of dignity. But you, little girl, glance nervously into your review mirror and fiddle with nothing in the passenger seat, because you can't admit to me that you're suspicious, but feel guilty in case I really do need you.

I really do need you.

And I see him smile to himself in sad recognition of the fact he used to be strong, he used to be visible, he used to be more than the ghost of a hero who never made it home.

whose mind still wanders through mine fields,
whose mind still wanders through mine fields,
whose mind still wanders through mine fields,
he wishes he would find one so he could be free.

He looks at me, and nods. He is saying

"don't feel bad. I take my hemlock straight up, and for me, it is this life"

I wish I could give him a bigger piece of cardboard