The Guest

He was a guest. A guest of the neighbor’s.

Had been one for a long long time, or so it felt

His only friends being the various instances in his memory

Of a previous life in a different century.

He was a guest. A guest of the neighbor’s.

His hosts had entertained him well.

Lots of gifts – the bodily scars and the limp

Had been products of their kindness

So that he had never had a dull moment.

He was a guest. A guest of the neighbor’s.

His hair was long and had turned grey

His ribs were visible through his scarred skin

He walked with a limp –

An ironic shadow of his former uniformed self.

He was a guest. A guest of the neighbor’s.

He had lost count of time

And Time had lost count of him.

Did they even know he was still breathing?

His son must be grown-up by now.

He was a guest. A guest of the neighbor’s.

He was a guest. A guest of the neighbor’s.

A guest who wanted to go home,

A guest who wanted to walk on the soil of his motherland.

A guest known to us simply as a POW.

He was a guest. A guest of the neighbor’s.

7/25/05