seventy-five years ago today
I was napping on the deck, only the day
after I celebrated birthday number 25
they call that quick stretch from then
'til now, three-quarters of a century--though to me,
it seems not a fraction of anything
if anything is a fraction, it is I, though
now a full century on my calendar, I am but half
a man, my two legs sawed off, 12/7/41
on the flat screen in my room, I see other ancient
mariners, many proudly wheeled to the commemoration
of that day--most with legs yet there
but what good are those parts, for war
and age leveled them, hobbled them even if they walk...
maybe I was the lucky soul
for I was sliced down to size all at once
humbled, hurt, but happy to come home, where
I made a life, with what pieces I had left
after the Sunday morning which began
with a soft singing breeze from the Pacific, and ended
with the tempests of hell, as I understand them