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Delayed Stress: They Pull Me Back

You look way back, and there in the Texas sun
are Bob and Joe, striding with their chutes
across their shoulders, flight suits sweaty, boots
crunching on the heated concrete, done
with today's mission, ready for the bar
at the O club, Perry singing "No Other Love"
on the jukebox. They pull one G. The sky above
no sweat. Steak and fries, rinsed with Lone Star.

Later that year, they died. I was young.
They will always be. And I recall them here,
wing men, flight mates, Joe - can it be wrong
that I survive? - and Bob, smiling. No fear,
though they would die that year. It's been a long
time now. Long time. I just can't leave them there.