Salute
the visually impaired brigade
marching toward Building 2,
their white canes swinging to and fro
as if sweeping for mines.
History rolls through the dim hallways
to the Canteen
for some fried eggs or liver and onions,
where the worn pages will be carefully opened
and stories will pour out like hot black coffee.
"How's your radiation going, Joe? Try
a cinnamon roll. Baked 'em this morning."
"He called me ‘the dirty Mexican’
until I pulled him from that foxhole
with Germans barking all around us.
Then, he fell at my feet
and cried like a baby."
"The usual for you, Holger?"
"They tell me there's no such thing as jungle rot,
but I've got feet says there is."
"We drove 186 miles
and I can't get get this damn tooth pulled.
I'm eligible for eyes, but no dental.
Nobody checked my eligibility
the day they ran me through with a bayonet."
"... the longest, coldest march you ever marched."
mental illness. substance abuse. dementia.
Welcome the lepers of the private world.
They suck dollars from the fruit jars
stashed under insurance company beds
as if money were cold beer.
"I can't seem to throw away these cancer sticks, doc."
Every morning is yellow in his room.
Yellow sunlight through the tall old windows.
Yellow walls. Yellow pajamas. Yellow skin.
The nurse places a cold washcloth on his forehead.
It's all she can do,
and it's enough.
He thinks he's five years old with the measles
and his mother is smoothing his sweaty hair.
Before dawn they begin forming lines
within their brick fortress,
brandishing their purple and blue cards,
still in harm's way
battling disease
and bureaucracy.
Salute.