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Omaha Beach, Normandy
By Danny P. Barbare
Those ash-colored blue eyes,
he tipped a Pall Mall in the kitchen sink,
then washed it down,
wetting the rest of it glowing,
nearly to his fingers.
Now from smoking he has emphysema
that has shaped his back.
He quietly battles forth with his life.
Drinking Miller, seeing something
in the dark kitchen window, he will not tell.
Mother says he never wants to cross the Atlantic again.
He has seen enough of it.
He passes away in ’95 at 71.
His Browning automatic is stolen from my uncle’s.
German bayonet, knife is given away
that is in the cedar chest,
because my mother thinks they are dangerous
having around us kids.
And Luger pistol that is still loaded
sells for three hundred dollars
at the local gun show.
But we still have his two World War II
German officer swords I’ll never let go.
His Sergeant comes to his funeral.
But the only thing I can imagine
is dad sitting on the couch in the
den, quietly rattling the newspaper.
He, who gets me on disability when
I cannot survive without it. My hero!
#Unreal# Poetry #Poem #OmahaBeachNormandy
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