by Barry Basden
For three days, the Traveling Wall--
half maybe three-quarter size--
stands on a windy hill
in a far corner of the fort,
away from the bustle of the main post.
Families of a certain age
and old-timers in boonie hats
file past shiny black panels
and leave medals, faded photos, flowers
beneath remembered names.
So many names. Choked-up weeping.
A few salutes. Silence.
Nothing else but the wind
and, in the distance,
the dust of young soldiers preparing.