All the Bright Mornings
I. On Saturdays
this life no smoke
lifted off the tarmac
heavy headed to Ploesti
dodging black flack downwind
the wind blows blue smoke
small engine repair
mornings so cold
you can your breath
catching fire watching
the bombs drop
silently framed in his
eyes sweeping the row
of tools spread out
useless now half or
more fogotten in
the haze oil smoke-
blowing now he stands
as always at his post
waiting for the engines
to warm
before he can tell
if anything is wrong
on saturday morning
when St. Paul came
his tools too dangerous
now for him who once
flew with the Eagles
over Italy
II.
All gone now
the memories flooding
together the ditch
run off water gathered
Gone Now the Bright Son
of father’s day
confused,
bent fingers
he stands
middle of the driveway
the robins
Charlie Mike,
as always
the young ones
feeding
as always he could
work longer harder
his generation
Old Lions showing
the young cats
how its done
the Youngest Son
stands watching
shaking his head
wondering if he too
Someday would.
III.
The Children
now scattered
the Angels have come
so bright the Son
when it started.