Over the green levee to the bench -- it's missing a plank,
as well as an inscription thanking some lance corporal for his death
in some rock farm thousands of miles East.
The bench is simple and was once red; from it we can watch
the Sacramento glide by: a shattered, nickel-hued mirror -- clear
on this December day overhung with mottled gray.
Make a silent wish as we tip our beer to men we held dear.
We'll kiss each other before it's too late
under trees bare of leaves, by water swift as fate.
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