We three old guys gather for coffee—
only one so far with dementia.
We never know when will be the last time
we’ll be healthy enough to share our wealth.
Bill and I marvel at John, a natural raconteur,
who doesn’t act like his illness has no cure;
which, while it steals the present,
sometimes leaves the past intact.

John takes us to 1965, when LBJ ordered
the bombing of the Dominican Republic.
His soon-to-be wife, a Peace Corps volunteer,
sheltered within the only solid structure,
where natives shielded her with their bodies
while debris rained from the ceiling.
Marines who liberated them days later wept.

Later, as we stand to leave,
John asks us our names.
It’s okay; recalling names is less
important than who we’ve been today:
survivors keeping each other’s
stories and histories,
the best of us, alive. 

Top Image: Pixabay/Claro Cafe
Side bar image: Pixabay/Sabine van Erp