Three Marches have come and gone
Like a public bus come to my street
Before giving up and moving on.
Each time I’ve seen them through windows
Fogged with the steam of my growing rage,
A fog so heavy it has suffocated three springs,
Nipped in the bud her verdant rebellion.
It’s April now and the streets are quiet save for
Solemn commuters and passenger-less buses:
I go to work, I go home, where from my laptop
I vent like a raging furnace
That fumes and sparkles but gives no warmth
To overthrow this three-term winter.
What good is my paycheck now?
What good these words?
Will I really wait for another March to come and go?
I can’t say that April will still be there,
For there comes a point where only my feet, our feet,
Hot with movement,
Can liberate the streets of this looming apocalypse
Of treacherous perennial cold.
Saturday, April 13, 2019