THE REUNION
He has come back to Omaha
Beneath the ripe cantaloupe sky,
When the sun is tilted off the horizon
Just to the west side.
He walks along the ridge
Where unwitting children play,
And denizens and sojourners seek
Relics from that horrendous day.
To an old forgotten Lombardo tune,
Modest ghosts jitterbug from the tide,
Donned in brown shoes and web belts,
And toss their haversacks aside.
They greet in that stoic way,
That snap gesture of hand to head.
And there he walks upon the sand
In quiet communion with the dead.
He doubts the divinity of the pew;
The stone tablets of ancient days,
But has agonized about the query:
Who comes, who goes; who stays?
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Featured image credits to Peter H on Pixabay
