Walking with Martin

I have been writing some poetry to read at my Dad's memorial service next week. My Father was a teacher in inner-city Chicago in the 1960s. He was well-loved by his students for standing up for them and trying very hard to keep racial violence from erupting in the schools. He once talked his way through the beginnings of a race riot and kept things from getting out of control. He, and a fellow teacher, took the bus from Chicago to Washington DC in the summer of 1963 to see Martin Luther King's "I Have a Dream" speech. Later in his life, when he was an editor for Xerox's Publication department, he took a year sabbatical to work at a Juvenile Detention Facility, helping the kids there start a newspaper. He often said it was one of the best years of his life. I know the poem is a bit rough. Any feedback is appreciated. Thanks

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