Dad stood on the
deck of the Iowa
smoking his pipe, leaning
against the rail
watching the water flow by,
listening to the news.

One bomb—Hiroshima,
two bombs—Nagasaki.
The Emperor surrenders.

He taps the pipe
against the rail
and pockets the pipe.

Two battles—
Bougainville, Guam.
He would not regret missing
one more in Japan.
                        

My old man was
a young man once.
Standing straight and
proud in his uniform.

His field scarf tied
small and neat.
His cover sits
slightly askew.

The picture doesn’t
tell the story of
the boys he lost—
too young to die.

One month at war.
A small part
of the next fifty
years of his life.

No young man
should die for
the hate of
the old men.