The guys who walk
down Main Street
in their uniforms of old
each year are bent a little more
and walk a little slower.
The route is maybe shorter
than it was the year before,
and we carry umbrellas
just in case of heat or showers.
But they’re as proud
as they were on the day
they joined the service.
And they recall the men they lost
with every step they take.
published in Medusa's Kitchen and in Medium
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