Samuel would have a Nobel prize for Frisbee
if they gave one and if he were human and not a dog.
And they played positions: others throwing, him retrieving.
And catching. Samuel Cetera sure could catch.
One day he saw three scruffy men in wheelchairs
applauding him, him churning his three legs
to make another jump, a dashing catch.
Distracted by their clapping, Samuel missed.
The Frisbee sailed beyond him, to the men.
When he got there—running, limping—Samuel saw
the men flip the Frisbee gently to each other.
They had no legs, these veterans of three wars
that no-one at home remembered. Wars without names.
The Frisbee fell, none of them could reach down.
Samuel picked it up, gave it to one of them
who threw it and he caught it. Brought it back
to the second man, and a next time to the third.
All afternoon the dog ran on three legs
and the legless men threw the Frisbee high and laughed.
Samuel Cetera, and three maimed men, and courage.