A poem.

Legion


The gray haird man in the Legion Hall
Wasn't really talking to me, or to my beer,

It was the air, perhaps, or something on the wall
An old team photo? A plaque? A faded dream?
Or maybe the olive drab they'd painted the ceiling
Some wag with surplus paint.
A sky of green, faded, peeling.

Once I snapped-- the winning point,
Back, before the war.
Once I blocked-- gave him time to escape
To get off that bullet.

And we were the victors.
We were.
We were victorious
I was a part of it all
I was a part
A part.

-Charlie