.
.
.
.
.
I see them.
pale busts behind curtained
banquet tables, unseen legs spread from
years of swagger, a brown bomber jacket or two
creased at the elbows, forearm worn where scoured in motion
from rest to handshake, from at-ease to autograph, cuff perhaps ink-
stained (and too the envelope-pants pocket from stuffing down compensations
and is that done slyly?) on the shoulder stiff flags, (always the flags like a name tag
at a reunion lest we forget) lined up beaming as though they were Johnny Bench, Pete Rose, Willie Stargill and waiting, the patrons (who I’ve far more trouble picturing) grand
-fatherly peeks over bifocals asking, “Who do I make this out to honey?” “How does he want me to spell Shinjimae?”* “Yes, thank you, but I was only doing my duty” and when Orientals are in line (don’t doubt that they often are) is there the same frozen imbecility on all occidental faces that we see when caught, a minority among Blacks, pretending we don’t breath the differences in every exhale and don’t know how not to see color? A level
of hell roars with the laughter of their contre-parties de guerre, the kamikazes, who 50
years now witness the audacity and know too well what awaits these ‘heroes,’
the open car parade rides, the cherished pew, the fire halls, VFWs,
always something one would think to keep a shark
moving lest they perish, lest a calm pool
cause reflection and never,
never, never, never
mention of the cab
driver, teacher, hop
-scotcher, dreamer,
laundress, sculptor,
adulterer, favorite
-aunt, seamstress,
stevedore, drunk,
nursing baby, bell
ringer, vegetarian,
bonsai master, idler
invalid, bicyclist,
broken hearted,
or any of the
200,000
humans
beings
who
died
here