Beneath statues
of Civil War heros
On bronze horses,
Green with age
And victory, sits
The ragged infantry
Of every park,
Pairs of drunks
Passing bottles
Back and forth
Like magicians
Handling fire,
Swallowing wine
Cold and raw,
Swapping tales
Of war, agreed
That bums should
Be in bronze
And generals made
To sit on benches.
The democracy
Of summer has
Its say. Come
December, hands
Stretched out
To trash-can fires
Long for peace.
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