The War That Made Us Poem by Zenn Wong

There was this old man
who was ferried in a wheelchair
and had a maid to bring drinks
to his lips.

His skin was rippled like a
strawberry, but instead of red
he was orange. Wrinkled, like a piece
of crushed paper, used and
unwanted.

He dipped frontwards,
hunchbacked like a wilted flower
and constantly shaking he was. With each
sip of tea, he sighed, a broken
symphony of
regret.

Harry would stare
and stare in morbid curiosity.

"It's the war, sonny, "
the old man would look into Harry's
eyes, and remark sluggishly in his explosion of a voice.
"Agent Orange. Ghastly gas,
it was."

"Lost my nerves, fighting in
all that. War's what made
me and you."

Then little Harry
would look at a glass
reflection, tears brimming at
his own oversized, bulging forehead,
stubs in place of arms and how
repellently grotesque
he looked.