​
Veterans Day


He sits in the front row in a wheelchair that seems too large 
for his disappearing body, so thin now, shoulders stooped 
forward, unable to stand much less at full attention. 
He holds the blazing red paper poppy in his shaky left hand, 
salutes with his right. The sun glistens off his medal-decorated jacket,
ribbons and pins bejewel his fabric cap, symbols 
of his Great War, the one branded with guts and glory,  
foxhole friendships, indebtedness to the swift action of others
on his behalf. He’s one of thousands of sons of immigrants
whose DNA was imprinted with gratitude to a country for a life
without violent czars, terror of famine, unspeakable persecution
for beliefs unfamiliar to the majority. Some veterans never
attend these memorials, don’t want our thanks, our attention. 
For too many, the darkness they brought back never 
ceded to light. This darkness has led many of us to view 
war differently,  not so cowboys and Indians, not so David 
and Goliath. It’s a business proposition, a malevolent game. 
Today’s veterans are still often sons of immigrants, 
or immigrants themselves, whose hearts are flooded 
with hope that military service will be paid in citizenship. 
They sign up for the same dreams for their children 
as the parents of that frail soldier in the front row: a life without
fear and endless opportunity to try, and try again.





Anticipation


Only one remains of four
images, printed at a photo 
booth where couples pull
the curtain: smooch, giggle,
make funny faces for the 
next bright flash. These two, 
so side-by-side they’re one, 
beam smiles, eyes of 
glorious expectation 
right through the lens. 
Yes, she said. Yes.     
But, this was way before. 
Way before.





Father in his Swim Ensemble, Even Though He Doesn’t Swim


There he is, on the front lawn, wearing a straw visored cap, matching  red and white shirt jacket and swim trunks that never saw the deep end (childhood trauma, don’t ask.) His white well-formed legs contrast with the arms: white right arm on the hip, playful, his left arm, Mediterranean brown from decades of driving elbow bent from the window. Descendent of Ukrainians grateful to be in a coal mining town (but not in the mines), far away from the heartless Cossacks. His gift of languages (Yiddish segued to German) and a high school typing class kept him off the battlefield and inside the Captain’s office typing, filing, swallowing the bile that arose listening to “those Jews, those Commies,”careless remarks made by the officer, oblivious to why they were both in the U.S. Army in Germany in 1943. Those arms return intact to the embraces of mother, wife, two daughters and a music store where those arms shook on deals, moved and shelved inventory, always, always, held books and newspapers each evening to quench the thirst to know more. The hands, one brown, one white, type his own summing up, his own goodbyes to laughter, tears, successes, failures, the joys and sorrows of a long life. Now it is the arms of those who remain that appear. Dig shovel into the small hill of dirt. Pour shovelful onto the casket. Pass shovel down the line of all those gathered to remember the man who guided quietly, consistently, playfully on the lawn, at ease in the car, one hand on the wheel, the other blessed by the sun. 





Old Age


He’s the man of a thousand Oys.
Oy, when he sits. Oy when he rises.
Oy even when his failing body succeeds.
Congestive heart failure is the official
diagnosis, cutting off blood circulation,
closing down lungs, increasing unwanted 
fluids. Outta da way, he barks, determination 
driving the walker toward the bathroom. 
Another endless wait for his return
to the comfort, security of the soft sofa. 
He plops down with another Oy.
Unwillingly, he dozes off; legs jerk upward, 
a coda to his thoughts. A born storyteller, 
his nodding travels are no less complex: 
creating plots for his favorite TV comedy; 
crossing Canada with an accordion on his back, 
remembrance of years selling them to Poles, Slavs 
in his music store; working an imaginary mustard 
concession at ballparks across the country until 
he runs out of sources. No luck, even now, he cries bitterly 
when he awakens for a lucid second. His head drops again, 
chin on chest, fading to the mental limbo of this twilight
time. Slowly, he lifts his head awake, whispers, 
You think it’s easy to dream?