The squares have all been rounded up,
a universal wrangle.
While life has lost a certain edge,
there remains the triangle.
The stars have all been taken down,
no mention of a spangle.
The artists are all up in arms.
Their aspirations dangle.
An arcade in the wilderness
has plunged our eagle into debt.
He thought he’d rule the wildlife pool.
But that was one bad bet.
His chips were down on common ground.
His talons lost their grip.
He flew too high and from grey sky
he spied a sinking ship.
With big bucks down on swim or drown,
he watched it all go under.
His realm was once our freedom’s wave.
But that’s all torn asunder.
Massive staircase to minimum space.
Shuttling between orbits of gum.
Sticking to the outside of the inside pages.
Words pink and puckered by habit.
There is no recourse to history’s racecourse.
The favorites will win. The scrappers will show.
The course is long and designed as unending.
The bending of rules is assumed.
There is nothing here within to survive the great without.
Breath is an adventure the living assume.
Nothing says the door cannot come down and end the play.
It’s time to bear the pall.
The pendulum is still.
The pit is split. The world is small.
The wind is cold and chill.
To deep holes in our sacred ground
are lowered profane veins.
The black blood flows through them unbound.
The earth will wear the stains.
The sounds of prayer hang in the air
and mix with tear gas fumes,
the body snatchers unaware
the curse their hoe exhumes.
The blue spot fades to heartfelt red
as the sun broils my eyelids.
This is a hint of spring, even behind
the cool glass veil. The dogwood barks.
Cat o’ nine tails wag. Even a hint
of birdsong on the softening breeze.
Soon all will be green again,
and, if not well, at least warm.
There is, then, one good thing to cherish.