The Wall
Mourning sun glints on black marble
Reflections shift to and fro,
looking out, waiting
He comes toward the names
Shuffling awkwardly
He looks old and tired
His youth plied
For a Country that forgot
He leans against the Wall
Wanting to say a fairwell,
but to who
The wind is soft
Or is it voices He hears
Softly calling, softly
The guns are silent
Bodies whole again
Hands placed on black marble
Names calling out
Shadows float
He feels old and tired
But He knows, He knows...
Jim Kitchens
Marfa, Texas
1997