I sat there in the service, and I thougth to myself, "it's him all over, Larry has again come to call".
His extremities were all crippled, his hair, rediculous and long.
He related to me his stories of his service in honor, to God, to country, to us within the fields of battle so far, far away.
My first response was of distrust, of faithless disdane.
The message from on high today was of Thomas and of doubts...veritas, I ask, where are you, veritas?
He explained to me his story, of his service to his country. South Korea was his destiny, firefights his disdain.
Like a blackbird he fixated on my broach on chest affixed "a medal of honor?"; my reply was there nixed.
He showed me his card of Veteran's Affairs, his medal of courage, his honor, his badge.
Cringe came over me, as I shook his hand. How will I take my mints, to sing my song, with hands so filthy, so much there in throngs?
Withered and crippled were his body and and so was his mind; at his side was a change purse, fashioned crudely from the sash of a pint.
It jingled and it rattled as he worshipped there with me, his voice was in harmony, and beside him together we were choir.
I thought to myself, "this hapless poor soul...but not for grace, would I be as so?".
He was happy and faithful, and in this I attest; my own selfless virtues were put to the test.
I wonder here now, in this cold, frigid rain, where has he travelled, and what is his bane?
"Every sparrow he'll catch," and I thus believe.
But I can't help but wonder, where is this soul's relief?