His glasses focused already small
eyes into vivid blue
streams of energy
they took every
decrepit muscle and
decaying joint and
exploded the joy
his whole body
once had
exploded
behind thick, deep
glasses
And he told me stories
literally to break the ice
as he worked on icebreakers
in what he called the ‘artic’
and stories where
he saw an atomic bomb
under a canvas sheet
and knew to keep quiet
if he knew what was good for him
but now
these stories
explode
He tipped his coffee so far back
I was certain his back would break
but that spine, it seems, is iron
as is his good raw laughter
“I really enjoyed that,”
he would say
“God, did I love those boats.”
And once he was court-martialed
for pulling his men
out of the cold
they were scraping, scraping
and he was pacing
white-knuckles on
officer’s coffee
hands gripping
the story now
with less strength
but no less
fervor
And I saw stories so deep
in his soul
that I wondered
if it wasn’t
his soul
inside his stories
Most remarkable, perhaps
was the girl who
one day he saw
the next day bought her cheap perfume
the next day took her dancing
and ten days later
married her
“And that was sixty-four years ago.”
He stands and that iron spine
shudders purely
from the weight of
glorious stories
he steadies
himself on the chair
and I’ve never seen
someone
look less weak
Some of us flicker out
others burn
he explodes