You are gone now.
Few will recall the everyday of you,
The waking and working and eating and loving.
The child to teen to young man,
The rebellious churl, or mama’s boy, or lost one, or the one handy with tools or the studious one.
They will remember the courage melded with fear
Or the mundane day to day of regimentation
Or the simplicity of doing what you are told when you are told
And the commitment to do what needed to be done.
A dirty job for everyday men to rest upon their shoulders
For no other reason than it had to be done by someone so why not you.
Whether you perished in violence or gently at home in your bed after the waking nightmare,
I bow my head to respect you for what you had to do
And to thank you for doing what I did not have to do.