He rocks in his navy blue chair.
Rockets of air scream past his ear
as he looks at his printed smile,
hung beneath the iron cross
nailed to his wall.

Smells of day’s old bodies
rot with pride.
The morning news breathlessly
whispers from the bureau, battling to out yell
the thunder of the resurrecting memories,
to distract from the orders.

His quick finger pulls.
Remorse rises from the dead,
rusts his spirit,
lowers the key of his anthem.
But he still sings with starry pride.

His fingers ache
struggling to turn the knob.
The news says
the Eagle still sits high on the world,
Its anchor secured to the earth.
He and his Eagle will not let it sink.