Bobby grew up into a boy.
Wrong decade. He
left for the War, Second World,
returning years later,
a box-camera snapshot in hand:
foot soldiers, himself and four friends
lined up in front of a broken-down fence.
Boys drowning in greatcoats.
At the cottage Bobby slept in a cot on the screened-in veranda,
half in, half out of the house.
Old army blanket, and all night
the wind off the shore raked his hair.
Mornings, he’d sprawl
on the wharf or sit in a lawn chair,
slathered in baby oil,
remembering what?
His fiancée married while
he was at war. He never did.
Later – the house finally his – he glassed in the porch,
wintered in his red velvet chair,
cradling the snapshot: five soldiers, all boys,
in the palm of his hand.