To Raymond Rivoal and George K. Mullins

Eighty-two years since the orphan
became the unit’s mascot.
Eighty-one since the soldier saw the boy
rise to the occasion.

Two old men in plain sight
for the flag-waving youth.
One stands by the other’s wheelchair,
bent in reunion.

Tears and stories stream.
My boy, says the elder
My friend, cries the younger
Keep the line moving,

begs the voice
overlooking the joy
unfolding, humans
connecting

genuine grief and gushing
guilt over friendly-bombs
and flattened
family units.

Eighty-two years
and now
three generations
rushing hugs

while the timekeeper misses out.