He sat on the bus by himself
the odor extruding from him
sort of kept him to himself
sometimes he would mutter
everyone thought he was neurotic

his absence went unnoticed by most
though I wondered where he was
he was so much a regular
yet mysterious to most

one day I ventured to ask
his name, to engage him in some talk
he said he was Leroy, just an old drunk
yet his speech shed the real truth

he lived alone under the 38th street bridge
occasionally he could be seen panhandling
asking for the occasional dollar or change
knowing it only added to his habitual binge

he died yesterday, an obit in the paper said
though his picture was yellowed and torn
it showed a young man in military uniform

he was a POW in the WWII
fought his way out and escaped
but not before he rescued the others
guiding them through dense woods
and around the enemy lines

He came home to a ticker tape parade
later became a firefighter through the GI bill
saving lives and making a difference
just like he had in Norway
he seemed like a hero

he never felt like a hero
his father had left him at age 3
not by design but by the flu
his life was marred by pain
and working hard to survive

the last bit of the obit said it all
what Leroy never said on the bus
he spent his life giving to others
and the citizens around him
forgot him when he was in need

the bus ride today is quiet
but never again
will I think an odd person
sitting next to me
is a nobody

07/16/2008

Posted on 07/17/2008
Copyright © 2024 Mark Maxey