— Nick Butterfield
When the dust of the streets is swept into an Armory,
You feel as though you are filling in for no one.
And if you were to leave, there would continue
To be no one.
Your shiny face may of meant something to someone.
To Someone that no one else would notice.
And what was not there is replaced by caring,
Not sympathy or good works done once a year…
More then the dusty smell of my Grandma’s attic.
There, I found a small Bible
in a large chest that my great great grandpa
carried with him during the Civil War.
I learned from his Memoirs, he was disappointed
he did not die a hero,
But was given a medical discharge for lice infestation.
He regretted years later that he had to burn his uniform.
He went on to live and started a Medical School with his wife
Because I breathed that dust,
I could be that something no one else would do.
Made of the dust of something that could.