Their youth shaken,

salt over sands:

futures, minds,

limbs, and eyes,

poured down into

thankless hands.

Laurels – days as hollow as

a tin cup dragged

down spit shined streets

where whorish moans echo through,

every corner’s meet and greet.

Sons of Priam from the street

wave drunken flags

at grim parades

yet never will they join with arms

or slap their backs on hiring day.

A future healer on the ward

grits his teeth and scuffs his shoe

for having to suffer though

another dirty old vet.