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Omaha Beach, Normandy
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 Visit our shop and subscribe. Sponsor us. Submit and become a contributor. Like us on Facebook and follow us on Twitter.
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