The Wall

                                    The Wall

He traces names, maneuvering the chair

against the slope. The panels stretch out black

and still. Each year he vows he’ll not be back,

but every bitter April finds him there.

The first few names of friends are low. But four

are cut up high, and he would need a leg

to stand and trace them. So he has to beg

for help from strangers innocent of war.

Some years ago he pushed his wheels to where

the leader lived. He’d stared across the lawn

beyond the bars—the tourists had all gone—

then cursed and spat upon the ground. A pair

of guards had turned away without a nod.

—You’d think that it would break the heart of God.

                        —Robert A. Hall

*****

Robert A. Hall is a Marine Vietnam veteran who later served five terms in the Massachusetts State Senate. He and his wife, Bonnie, live in Madison, WI.