Parade

 

It's just business
my need
and yours
kids with drum sticks beat stretched
skins in the mild winter grey
kids in folding chairs flagging
passing flatbed trucks dressed in drag
we sent our sons to die
we send our sons to die
how I begged in bent prayer to take
their place
using every sales technique taught
on Mrs Jones' summer porch
in some celibate auditorium turned
tomb
after midnight
rehearsing charm school script over eggs
every morning
singing it's a
it's a
it's a
great great day to be a bookman
but the Lord ain't listening
he ain't being sold
"must be something y'all put in the water"
he ain't got a place we can sit down

so this is just business
I died a long time ago
when I was rent from my destiny
by cowering
by loud decibels I couldn't detect
in my left ear
someone else's son was sent to die
what started in Africa passes the
Main Street throng
throbbing pulse of parade
in lock step marching child soldiers saunter
in high school colors
on a soft grey wind the pomp extends its
touching thread through my threshold
this heart is for anyone
anyone who wants what's left
take it
if you want it.

TA