Before a sea of ivory crosses cast adrift on a high desert meadow I am.
Standing alongside coin covered graves, staring as a tattered flag waves.
Hoisted high as day broke, unoiled wheels relinquish old glory, tears not taps here spoke..
Offering my hands, we fold with care, liberties banner, for these on their last liberty here burried.
Merchant Marines, stranded high and dry, posted, where Fort Stanton soldiers drilled to fight.
None here will be drilled, piped from the gangway, one final arid port, saltines won’t complain.
They, all seventeen hundred, in New Mexico’s heartland remain, as I linger amid their graves.
A prayer for those who remain, dwindling, they soon will claim, liberties post on this high plain.
Though on your resting place I stumbled, finding markers, memories and a few odd tokens.
For your service I offer thanks, allow me if you will these words to here offer.
You were called, you came, here earth from sea you have now claimed.
A simple cross, a number or a name, a memory for some, hopes for each who came.
Thank you, Merchant Marines, thank you for this day i’ll always claim.