I spoke to an old man on a dewy summer morning.
We sat on a park bench under a spreading oak tree and he
spoke of the space beneath his desk where he waited for the flash,
and how Oswald grimaced in pain, and
the joy of sniffing freshly printed mimeographs.
He spoke of the shame of My Lai, and how he helped his
father pack his things when left as a boy, and
how he wept at his dog’s last three breaths.
He spoke of the kindest person he’d ever met,
and that he once had had faith.
He said he remembered everything,
and then he moved on.