by Edgar Bowers
"Who is Apollo？" College student
How shall a generation know its story
If it will know no other？ When， among
The scoffers at the Institute， Pasteur
Heard one deny the cause of child-birth fever，
Indignantly he drew upon the blackboard，
For all to see， the Streptococcus chain.
His mind was like Odysseus and Plato
Exploring a new cosmos in the old
As if he wrote a poem——his enemy
Suffering， disease， and death， the battleground
His introspection. "Science and peace，" he said，
"Will win out over ignorance and war，"
But then， the virus mutant in his vein，
"Death to the Prussian！" and "revenge， revenge！"
How shall my generation tell its story？
Their fathers jobless， boys for the CCC
And NYA， the future like a stairwell
To floors without a window or a door，
And then the army： bayonet drill and foxhole；
Bombing to rubble cities with textbook names
Later to bulldoze streets for； their green bodies
Drowned in the greener surfs of rumored France.
My childhood friend， George Humphreys， whom I still see
Still ten years old， his uncombed hair and grin
Moment by moment in the Hürtgen dark
Until the one step full in the sniper's sight，
His pastor father emptied by the grief.
Clark Harrison， at nineteen a survivor，
Never to walk or have a child or be
A senator or governor. Herr Wegner，
Who led his little troop， their standards high
And sabers drawn， against a panzer corps，
Emerging from among the shades at Dachau
Stacked like firewood for someone else to burn；
And Gerd Radomski， listening to broadcasts
Of names， a yearlong babel of the missing，
To find his wife and children. Then they came home，
Near middle age at twenty-two， to find
A new reunion of the church and state，
Cynical Constantines who need no name，
