God Bless America
At the end of the road keep walking
Left, Right, Turn around, Climb down
Do you see Pvt. Joe pretending to sleep?
Count the time by years, not hours
He hasn't been there all that long, has he?
"Homeless? Me? Nah. Just a rough patch
Things have a way of workin out now, don't they,
so don't you go worrying yourself 'bout me."
An Amazon box holds his head for the night.
The last one said only Made in America
All four sides, no matter which way he flipped it,
He didn't have to wonder what was inside
Maybe bow ties, or baby shoes or scented trash bags.
The cops don't bother him anymore.
They look away when they see him.
He is just a lamppost, or a street sign
or a weed shriveled up by the sun.
Yet some of them are kind enough to offer
doughnuts holes, a tuna sub, pizza, buttered rolls,
and purified bottled water or a Coke if he's lucky.
They know where to leave his rations.
Up on the concrete ledge where the dogs can't get it
but Pvt. Joe always shares with the strays.
Some of them help keep him warm at night.
And when he gets up to piss in the quiet hour,
like a gentleman he makes sure to walk away
way down to the darkest end of the tunnel,
streaming out his business against the wall
sprayed over with graffiti so many times
he couldn't know about the original written sin.
"God Bless America"