Veterans in fetal posture
occupy the park benches,
plaza of the three-leg dog.
A niche where orphans hide
from the vacant-eyed groper,
bronze hero dissolving in fog.
Plastic bags clog the fountain,
spouts stoppered by vandals
the cherubs encased in ice.
This man in the photo, my husband, is
older now but he has a prominent scar.
Our phone if you see him is out of service.
Perambulators double as grocery carts,
a bag of spuds where a child once lay,
playground hours posted in faded ink.
A beggar extends a helping hand,
tin cup holding water for those who,
parched from wandering, need drink.