The Bridge I Invented

I told my cousin about the bridge,

how he held the line at the frozen ridge.

But the medal smells like mothballs and oil,

and my memory is starting to spoil.

The ribbon is frayed, a ghost of a red,

while a black-and-white movie plays in my head.

I’ve stolen a scene from a late-night show,

and given him a glory he didn't know.