Wild Bill

We never knew the cause of his pain,

  and some of us were quick to complain.

His whole life was a pure hot mess,

  somethin’ to do with trauma and stress.

Never had no job, lived all alone,

   didn’t have much to call his own.

Sometimes he camped deep in the woods,

   or hung out in bad neighborhoods.

He loved children and Disney cartoons,

  cheap cigarettes and sad country tunes.

Holdin’ his coffee, his hands sorta’ shook,

  and what he did was not by the book.

He’d offer a hand if only he could,

  too stove up to be of much good.

Sometimes he seemed a little bit rattled,

  we never knew the demons he battled.

PTSD was the VA’s call,

  provin’ that Bill was plumb off the wall.

Gave him a pension, a hundred percent,

  enough to cover his bills and his rent.

Got a fine car, fit for the road,

  before too long the engine was blowed.

He ran up a tab at the local café,

  first of the month he’d always pay.

Then one day, Bill wasn’t there,

  fair to say, we didn’t much care.

Then we got to worryin’ some,

  got us feelin’ solemn and glum.

Bill was gone, and he left a big hole,

  no kith nor kin for us to console.

Some fought in the trenches,

  some stayed on the benches.

Some left out in boxes and bags,

  covered with American flags.

Some were hit by shell or shot,

  Bill had his psyche tied in a knot.

Always had that thousand-yard stare,

  somethin’ he picked up over there.

His wounds were hidden deep in his soul,

   and they exacted one hell of a toll.

LDT Memorial Day May 30, ‘22