Memorial Day
Always they took the front, I remember.
Perhaps because when they were young,
They could not.
Then they might have been back in the pack.
Maybe in the rear.
Marching to the Front.
Rifles slung over their shoulders.
Wool uniforms. No medals.
Just purpose.
Decades upon decades later.
The few that remained.
Marched up front.
Their rifles heavier now.
But still slung smartly, if not stiffly,
Over their shoulders.
Still in uniform, worn yes, and proudly, too.
Medals now.
Service in France as part of the Allied Expeditionary Force.
The Great War as it was known.
“The War to End All Wars.”
Fewer every year. They marched.
Remembering names, yes.
Faces, always. Young faces that never aged.
Lost forever.
And this day they marched.
Stiffly, but proudly.
They served.
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