The guys in 1945 saw the plain truth unfold from island to island,
Henderson Field to Tarawa, to Guam, to Biak, to Okinawa,
Slung from the wings of a shining B-24.
In no hurry now, the seasons and their minds turn again
gracefully, like dancers with long practice.

Timelessly twenty in the old photos, the waist gunner stands tall & smiles
beneath an engine nacelle; the flight engineer kneels on the wing, wiring shut a 
troublesome gas cap, glancing up as the camera clicks, at 19, the ball turret gunner grins
sheepishly, 50 cal. machine gun ammunition draped over his shoulders, surprises himself,
with such a pose, such a shawl.  At 74, the flight engineer squints into
the white sun on the white sand Florida beach.

Not a posed portrait, where the uniforms are pressed,
neckties snugged, each insignia in its place.
This one is a simple snapshot of men who'd just flown,
just stepping down from their plane,
floatation vests awry, flight suits, fat-i-gues wrinkled
parachutes partly unstrapped (the flight engineer left his chute
jammed in a crevice in the back of the plane).

They ask this guy on the ground crew to take the picture,
beside their bulky boxcar of a bomber.

The pilot confident, with hawk-hooded eyes, his tousled hair.
The impatient copilot, a youngster looking for a good time.
The navigator, the pilot's pal, who he thought should've been a rabbi, but for the war.
The flight engineer, competent (but airsick). Tailgunner the oldest at 30.  Bombardier, 
waist gunner in his crash cap.  Radio operator, glance askew all these years.
The ball turret gunner, how he fit his lanky frame
into that damn thing.
Each man emphatically alive, young, in the sun.

For 50 years the snapshots sat in the photo albums of ten men,
then nine, as time wound its moving camera.  Then eight.
Seven, and the waist gunner started making phone calls....

Fifty years later they gather here.
Their affections greet them, unchanged from the war:
the awe and reserved respect they held for one another, unchanged;
the earned loyalty to their pilot, to the bright constellation of the crew itself.

Fingering through the old photos, their wives standing beside, an unchanged crew
save for the missing faces, hands, laughter.
Also waiting, unchanged:  this debt to them, they earned so well,
this warm breeze,
this smile in a photograph from long ago.