He kept his house as a ranch

suburban Pennsylvania

five children, neighbors who

mowed lawns after church Sunday

and talked about the weather, the Eagles,

La-Z-Boy chairs and game shows.

 

His house was a sprawl of

Post-War living; appliances

and dining room chairs, lamps

and children, a wife from

Army correspondence days –

she was a secretary and telephone

operator while he was

away with the boys, burning

holes in the earth, chasing

down misunderstandings

of American Democracy.

 

He maintained a tidy house

and insisted that from his wife

and children; everyone was up

at dawn and never were there

excuses for not finishing peas

or liverwurst. He raised his

children on the frontier hopes

of discipline, hard work,

Davy Crocket and Ed Sullivan; he

told them “War is hell” and

choked on tears when his children

would ask about the rifle

in his bedroom closet.

 

The Japanese flag wrapped

around the forestock told them,

but he never wanted to say,

instead killing his anger with smiles,

and bear-hugging his children

with the yearnings of his heart;

he would never forget but

he would never give in,

keeping his house ready for

the frontier he had dreamed up

during long, cold nights, alone,

away with the boys, in foreign hell.