Missed Shot
by Odin Roark

He was old.
His memory young.

Still…

Grandkids had opinions.

His ancient cinema moment was small,
Just cheering in the dominantly Jewish crowd,
But he was there,
He knew it,
He’d been given food in payment.

But…

Where was he?

He rewound the YouTube stream.

He had three grandkids begging to see.
“I’m there.”
“Where”
“There in the crowd.”

The oldest just made ‘crazy’ spiral motions at his head.
“You’re sure, Grandpa?”
“ ‘Course I’m sure. There…”

But, before he could get up from his rocker,
Point his finger,
The footage was on to the tanks,
Troop trucks,
Brown Shirts in lock step.

“Don’t see you, Grandpa.”

He knew he was there, but…

A dissolve moved the film to bombs being dropped,
Big explosions,
Buildings toppling,
People stumbling about,
Dismembered parts flying,
Disintegration of history,
Of humanity.

He turned his computer off.

His hundred-one memory remembered clearly
How months later he stood dazed,
Observing Berlin in flames.

But of course,
That was a missed shot
On this piece of propaganda history.

Grandkids stared.
Grandpa smiled.
“What was, my darlin’s,
IS,
Still today.

Their parents returned from the Academy Awards.

Grandpa and his grandkids were all entwined asleep on the floor.

The babysitter enthralled with her twitter account.

The TV blaring forth awards'
Glamor and partying forth,
Including war as a celebratory honorarium.