Albert Woolson, the last survivor of the
2,200,000 man Union army, died in Duluth,
Minnesota, in 1956, aged 106
I remember seeing you during your last
Christmas City of the North Parade;
You wore your stocking cap pulled down,
Bundled snugly in winter coat and muffler,
Wrapped securely, like a fragile package
Encased in styrofoam and strapping tape.
Every precaution that could be taken had been
Against a bone-chilling November damp
That could summon lung congestion.
As the car that bore your venerable burden
Rolled slowly down Superior Street,
My father called my attention to you.
"There goes the last of the boys in blue.
Imagine. That man fought in the Civil War."
The mittened hand of a very ancient man
Waved feebly out from the rolled-down window.
I shrugged.
More interested in marching bands, the floats,
The Shriners on their fun little motorcycles.
I could've almost reached out to touch
The hand of the Army of the Cumberland,
Gazed into eyes that wept when Lincoln was shot.
Talk of degrees of seperation; I was just a few feet
Removed from a soldier who by his longevity
Had become a symbol of the Republic's Grand Army.
Indifferent though, to the history rolling past me,
I turned my five year old attention span instead
To the clowns who were passing out candy
As they cavorted along the parade route.
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