PTSD
- Aug 15, 2021
- 1 min read
Updated: Jan 15
The old vet
takes a seat
on his porch.
A jungle
of tall plants
that block him
from clear view.
Long, white hair,
fluffy beard,
like clockwork
he appears;
earphones on,
holding a
cup of brew.
He tends them,
talks to them,
perhaps a
bit senile, but
a peaceful,
kind old man;
no way mean.
I shout out,
“Hey, neighbor,
what are you
listening to?”
“Killing in
the name of,"
he replies.
"Rage Against
the Machine.”
~g
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