Dust stirs up the sounds
of a jukebox gilding distant shots
His weakened finger hesitantly helps
delicate times reemerge

A stolid expression
given away by the shaking right leg
that rhythmically graces the carpeted floor
leaving an imprint in the stiff and gray fibers

Not all the bone is left
Screws here and there
and a plastic hip (with hints of titanium)
as a result of that old battle wound

Silently proud, he is
of that old battle wound
stung him in the front lines, and he still
made it out alive

Dust settles down on silver-lined
picture frames and
gold medals that hang from the papered wall
he sits only next to past, now
as he dies in Cheyenne, Wyoming