Blue Angels

On Memorial Day, the line was four bodies deep
down the block a stretch. A light drizzle, our skin reflecting shine,

   the men a heap of glisten that trailed the grass for miles. We tilted
   our heads, the necks of the children bent too with a hope

or a chance to catch a glimpse
of the Angels flying above, jet fuel tailing

   amid a stark blue sky. Star-flown. This was the year
   my father could barely see - the diabetes stole his eyes -

but even he could taste the smoke, had enough sense
left to feel the air, the proximity of the planes

   how they roared and almost touched,
   flying in formation, almost seeming to hold

their bodies to themselves.