He steps down off the curb and waits
For traffic flowing by
His pant leg folds unevenly
He pauses with a sigh
Nothing bends from hip to foot
A wound from years gone by
His gait is slow and even toned
The traffic doesn't yield
Self assured and steady goes
He walked the field
In Vietnam, perhaps Korea,
The wounded 's human shield
Tended now, the medic's wound,
By younger hands at home
In grateful payment of
A phantom limb that's gone
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