bus station
in new orleans,
holding a cup of coffee
with both hands
wearing a frayed
black beret pulled
low over a matted
gray ponytail
he contemplates
his hazy reflection
in the grimy mirror
behind the counter
one of those
forgotten people,
living a half-life,
just beyond anybody’s caring
two stools down,
i’m indirectly
studying this guy
in the mirror
when suddenly
he catches my
reflection --
now my eyes are his,
& his eyes are mine
the same empty stare
of thirty five years,
& a thousand yards
of un-crossable ground…
without turning his head,
& just loud enough
for me to hear,
he whispers, “it ain’t easy…”
i know my part
& reply, “there it is…”
& he quietly echoes,
the timeless marine corps
closing line,
“there it forever & fucking well is…”
between two old brothers,
who’ve already heard
way too many people
talking the same tired shit --
there’s no need
for further conversation…