I almost missed him.
He was hidden in humility,
an unobtrusive old man,
handing out sale papers.

Standing off to the side,
just inside the entrance,
corralling wayward shopping carts,
supplementing his survival.

I noticed his hat,
the one with all the buttons
and concealed in the clutter,
the eagle, globe and anchor.

No doubt my mission
was most urgent,
wasting tomorrow’s wages
on nothing of importance.

But somehow I was drawn
to the golden emblem,
for I too claim the right
to wear it as my own.

I met a hidden hero,
whose failing eyes had witnessed
the raising of Old Glory
over bloody Iwo Jima.

I wonder just how many
humble hidden heroes
cross my path each day
and silently fade away.

 — Ivan Floyd Strope