The line of WWI veterans,
my mother’s father among them,
stood at attention on a Bremerhaven dock.
Gusts of brine wind lapped
at the Fuhrer’s black leather coat,
but he took his time,

took each man’s hands in his own,
thanked each for his sacrifice.
He of the luminous wounded blue eyes,
seeing my grandfather’s
prisoner-of-war medal, asked where,
& how long. "Russia, two years,"

my grandfather answered,
then added, "I escaped."
In moments of blue flame,
his beloved Fuhrer embraced him.
Behind them, Das Reich,
their new battleship, loomed.


Ontario Review #54