Homeless

There he is again
The Ghost Soldier.
Sun-baked byway native
Drifting in the wake.
Rusted leather grin
Creaks upward and down.
Toothless sentry
Nodding at his post.
I hurry past ignoring the tap
Of his empty-handed stare.

-T. Weeks
(A response to “Book XX: By The Roadside”)