A concrete grotto was his home

No mailing address; no telephone

His only meal was Dago Red

Sometimes a slice of stale bread

His home under the interstate

No drinking glass or dinner plate

Only a bottle in a paper sack

A dirty field jacket on his back

Folded neatly, an American Flag

Protected some with a plastic bag

The flag is the pillow under his head

A dirty blanket makes his bed

His own company he prefers

Never was a his and hers

Was the war that changed him some

It was the memory he was running from

He can run but he can’t hide

Someday he’ll escape to the other side

Until that day it’s Dago Red

And a dirty blanket for a bed