Doc’s Locker
poem13
I stand here listening to your sorrowful call,
58,000 names on a shiny black wall.
I didn’t want to come, I held back with all of my might,
But I felt like a moth drawn to the light.
Don, Art, Billy and Bob
what must you think as I sit here and sob.
It’s hard to believe 27 years have passed,
But the memory of your deaths still hold me fast.
Copyright © 1996 by Steve O’Brien, All Rights Reserved

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