Eyes of emerald green
scan the sky,
seeking the roaring,
rumbling, vibrations that
defend his home.
His heart longing to fly
next to a brotherhood
that is engrained in his soul.
His wings, long since folded,
his service at rest.
He extends his clenched hand
toward the heavens
bellowing, Go boys, Go!
A smile curls the corner
of prideful lips as
the screaming machines
pierce the clouds.
He knows them not
nor has he held them to his breast.
Yet, he swells with pride
knowing they are here
for him
protecting,
dominating,
reassuring,
him and
everyone
below their
iron bellies
that they serve
to keep him free.
A breeze caresses his aging lips, he licks them
and he turns, to leave, cane in hand,
forcing his aging body to respond
past rows of white crosses,
militantly planted, ridged and upright,
to return to the cold, silent
arms of a wheeled chair.

In the corner of his eye
he witnesses his Nations flag
briskly flapping out applause in the breeze.
and he whispers,
touche my old friend, touche