“Those men on the wall?”
The stout old rancher turns slowly
to stare sternly at a wide black and white
photograph in a wooden frame of horses 
and men in worn uniforms, saddle kits 
and large felt hats. Most had beards.
They were ready to go somewhere,
somewhere serious with rifle and cannon.
 
“Some say one of every eight Mexicans 
was killed in the Revolution. I fought with  
those men. That’s me near the center. 
“Strange,” he says pointing vaguely,
“it doesn’t seem so long ago,” 
 
a long pause.
 
“They are all gone now I suppose.”
he says turning to stare out the open door
then clears his throat, “Some say one of every
eight Mexicans was killed in the Revolution.” 
 
a second long silence. 
 
“My friends are all forgotten now.
No one wrote of where we fought
or who won the dirty battles! 
The winners grew fat and had no interest 
in the losers and nothing to forfeit by 
ignoring this parched corner of Mexico
where the war didn’t matter anyway.” 
 
With a sneer he adds, “Perhaps I too
would be dead if those bastards 
knew how hard I tried to kill them.”
 
– Lago Chapala