I observe the anniversary crawl near,

a guerilla action of memory

as past arcs in time,

Marches ago, a distant trajectory,

a short round the crime.

In unsuspecting hours if truth be told,

all brothers in green are ambushed by dreams from

the land where they were young and some didn’t grow old.

Those have their names written at the Washington Mall,

reflecting the message of the deep black wall.

So each March I have this ceremony, a personal

service just for me and those who are but memories.

It’s repeated everywhere, by both friend and foe,

but this one’s mine for two Joes I didn’t know.

Ray Schmudde

Durango