in Vukovar
a cataclysmic fuck-up
a black sheep nowhere man
a winter nesting animal bag-boy
lapping up puddle-water highwayside
He's got bolts where his eyes once slept
and an iron grate where a mouth should be
mothers hustle children away
whether in Zadar or Sisak
He shows Vukovar locals he means strange business
spitting metal and clutching his zipper
singing broken Croatian lullabies
in unrecognized AM radio screech
His paper blanket says Slobodan's dead