The Homeless people at the off ramp to Newark
who try to clean my car windshield
with dirty newspaper
probably have a lot to say,
About where it all went wrong
in Viet-nam,
How they left their humanity
in a burning Saigon
They’d say Ho-Chi Min was a son of a bitch
but even he’d
be better than this.
They’d say how afterwards drugs just felt right,
It was the 70’s,
and everyone was high.
Gerald Ford had plans to help,
everything would turn out fine.
The memories of private friends,
with murderous grins
And the screaming women
who wouldn’t give in
Hide from them
in every crack in the sidewalk,
Every face with slanted eyes
hides the taste
of Agent Orange.
Now I’m rolling up my windows
and locking all the doors
Saying boy What a dump
as I press the gas
and try to speed up
And get to Penn Station time.
Original Poetry 
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