Sheltering Sadness

Calls running down the line from the past,
Epitomized, without eulogy, by the scent
Of dry grass summer days.

Cement so hot feet are burned through the
Thin soles of worn brown shoes padded out
With yesterday’s newspaper.

The framing of we in the country of silence,
A shared alliance against loneliness, a suture
In preparation for colonial imperialism.

Could we shy away? Would we prevaricate
In dulcet tomes? Should we read this sortie
As remedial or rectification? Reification?

There is a stamp of sad bemusement about us,
Stolen participation leaving voids of consent
Where we sing paeans to a false history.

Can we replace tear-filled byes with shock and paw?
A mauling we requested without knowledge, yet
Offering withered fruit on the vine in tribute.

Snarling anger lashes, contempt so present and
Palpable it’s a organism living beyond its origins,
Rising metaphor creating the new rhetor.

No shelter remains viable, the erosion of complacent
Idylls leaves only firebrands ascendant and joyous,
Renewed through blood and such special fire.

These flames are dark, birthplace of broken glass
On night sidewalks, torches refracted by shards in
Pools of liquid so black, cooling in the moonlight.

We were told and told and still we forgot:
Fascism isn’t the boot in your face;
It’s the boot in the face next to you.

August 18, 2004
© 2005, wordlackey