His hands were coarse -
Blackened nails stabbed
out of filthy fingerless gloves

he refused to take off.
Talked to himself constantly
restless eyes flickering -

they called it shell shock.
Slept in an ancient caravan
with a mangy blue healer

he used to abuse.
Drew his navy beanie down tight
to keep out the fear.

poor old Joe.
He used to be a gardener
before the war.

They say he grew beautiful flowers...

Alison Cassidy

http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/poor-old-joe/