Florian

Pink gladiolas stood guard
by the back porch,
and on Saturday mornings
my uncle’s black Schwinn
joined them.

He’d open the screen door,
perch on a yellow stool
in the kitchen, right leg crossed,
foot swinging.

I’d sit at attention
on the cool linoleum
as he relived
his army days in France.
Mom focused on her ironing
without looking up.

He never mentioned battles,
only bloodless stories,
trading possessions
and leather boots
for American cigarettes.
Mom sighed as if
she’d heard them
too many times.

Before leaving,
he’d measure bicarbonate
of soda into a glass of water
and gulp it down,
praising its soothing power
over his goddamn
bleeding ulcer.