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.