I survived the first war, but the second one got me.  Took my arms and legs. I can’t even kill myself. Sure, I get benefits, money and a place to lay my head, if you can call sleeping in The Salvation Army, home. But I get around. Each morning I star in my own freak show, just to the left of Bloomingdales, a torso on a rolling cart with a tin cup. Trust me, it’s not the money. Don’t need shoes that’s for damn sure. My counselor says it’s good for me to get out, socializing and fresh air. New York City, fresh air, now that’s a laugh. Most people don’t look my way, don’t give a crap. Me neither. I ain’t looking to make friends.

Then a kid moves down the block. Fearless. Bold. Comes right up close, stays for a good hour. Spends every afternoon for a month, standing with me. Uninvited, Unwanted. Looks to be about nine years old. Doesn’t say a word. Then, one day, she brings a blanket, wraps it around my stumps. Next thing you know, a wool hat, stretches it over my head.. Two months go by, still no conversation. Then one day she speaks. Says she’s moving back to Georgia, to her people, that she’ll miss me. Says maybe she’ll see me again, soon. Leans over and gives me a kiss on my cheek, and a rush of burning tears run down my face like hell. Can’t wipe them, neither. A torso with a crying head.

Must be about five years now. Every day I look for her, eyes straight ahead, seeing everything. No sign yet, but she’ll be back. I know she’ll be back. Even in the dead of winter, I beg them to wheel me out here. For the first time since the war, I want to live.