His hands were coarse - <br />Blackened nails stabbed <br />out of filthy fingerless gloves <br /> <br />he refused to take off. <br />Talked to himself constantly <br />restless eyes flickering - <br /> <br />they called it shell shock. <br />Slept in an ancient caravan <br />with a mangy blue healer <br /> <br />he used to abuse. <br />Drew his navy beanie down tight <br />to keep out the fear. <br /> <br />poor old Joe. <br />He used to be a gardener <br />before the war. <br /> <br />They say he grew beautiful flowers...<br /><br />Alison Cassidy<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/poor-old-joe/
