Hero Tale Poem by Roger Hawcroft

A hard day done I longed to be
at home with wife and family
but from a doorway came a cry
a call I couldn't dismiss, deny
I faltered then before going by

An old man calls, before I pass
"here, you got a smoke or bit of cash? '
it's quite a while since I last ate"
my ‘social conscience' took the bait
it was darker now and getting late

I even felt some fear inside
And wondered if a ruse might hide
Some mean companion in the night
I almost turned to cowardly flight
But somehow I controlled my fright

My social conscience almost gone
I mumbled as I cleared my throat
And took my wallet from my coat
"I haven't much, but here, it's yours
buy some food, a night indoors"

as he snatched the notes, I felt his touch
recoiling at the feel of such
the dirt and grime were well ingrained
his only shower, when it rained
and I responded as though stained

but in that instance, I understood
as me, this man was just as good
and what I'd offered wasn't true
Of course I knew what he would do
For In his place, I'd do it too

I knew the cash was passed in vain
No food or bed would ease his pain
A toke, a tab or cheap sweet wine
would drown the memories of a time
when he was proud and life was fine

When, once, he'd had a wife and kids,
long, long, before he hit the skids
now, just bare memories, empty names
and people mostly, just the same,
avoid his gaze and hide their shame

So, as guiltily, I turned to go
he touched my sleeve, as though
to say, it's not so bad, this place -
it even holds a sort of grace -
I rushed away, increased my pace

My social conscience now in tatters
did all the talk and lectures matter?
were me and mine just all pretense
hypocrisy, disguised as sense
with ready spiel, used as defense?

Must we keep this mock divide
espousing wisdom, showing pride
not doubting that our nation's great
a democratic, model State,
yet to so many - a well closed gate

We can't let any old human in
the bible surely says that's a sin
We have to keep our bloodline clean
It isn't that we're being mean
things just aren't always what they seem

So this man's story isn't rare
It's testament that we don't care
Our airs and graces make our days
We live in a fallacious haze
making war if any spurn our ways

We build the guns and war machines
And sacrifice our children's dreams
As they are slaughtered for our cause
The money makers barely pause
For god is on our side, of course

For those who've killed we raise our praise
Celebrate with fanfare and parades
Not caring for the blood that's spilt
Or for the tragedy we've built
Conveniently, it seems, we have no guilt

This old man, too, he went to war
He's haunted now by what he saw
A hero once - someone to know
He pawned his medals long ago
Who cares? We just don't want to know.