by Becca White

His only friend was the Coke Machine,
The one that could never leave him.

His only friend was the Coke Machine,
The one that had five selections, but only diet.

His only friend was the Coke Machine,
The one down the street from the store.

His only friend was the Coke Machine,
Who was aged with weatherly love.

His only friend was the Coke Machine,
Who had no insults to shout.

Then one day, even it went away,
An eyesore in a booming city.

Now he had no friends,
No protection from the slurs and the hate.

Now he had no friends,
Nowhere to duck and hide.

Now he had no friends,
Last month, kids filming him with phones,
Laughing while they kicked over his cart.

Now he has no friends,
Last week, piss on his sleeping bag,
The careless pompous man’s dog.

Now he had no friends,
As someone egged him just today,
I stopped my car.

As I approached, he seemed unsure.
I told him my name and took his hand.

“Let’s get you cleaned up”
He told me his story, from before the Coke Machine.
Two tours Afghanistan. One tour Vietnam.

Two Purple Hearts. And a thank you—
But, in reality “thank you” wasn’t true.
More like FUCK YOU!!

A landlord who wouldn’t rent to “someone like him.”
A VA that lost his paperwork. Twice.
Cops that asked him to “move along”
Just like trash.

An old woman who crossed the street,
Seeing him a block away.
A teenager who spit in his cup,
Giving that as his two cents.

No house, no money, and in need of some help,
But none ever came, till me just now.
So here I am three years later,
With my adopted grandfather from Los Angeles.
Who was told to die.