Slave, says my shirt
I run barefoot from hurt to hurt
The Good Lord’s magic sunshine child
A stoner saint in the hippie wild.
Slave, says my shirt
I stand on hallowed campus dirt
A man talks to the runaway
There is a day to resist and that is today.
A black flag, unfurled
For a war around the world
The column advances on the hope of a nation
The man speaks with bullet punctuation.
Blood, says the war
His face is no more
The words I never heard, unsaid
Flood the street from his martyred head.
Blood, begs the war
Bullets for three more
Three more good American kids
Three more closing casket lids.
Slave, yet still a soul
Compassion without control
The Good Lord’s magic sunshine saint
Splattered in patriotic paint.
Run, says my mind
Leave the blood behind
But I scream from a dead man’s mouth
His blood can’t cry, so I must shout.
Slave, says my shirt
My agony is inert
A moment captured for the million’s eyes
A photograph looking for a prize.
For Jeffrey, Allison, William, Sandra, and Mary Ann.
Photo by Aakash Dhage on Unsplash
Gripping and poignant in our times.
Fantastic piece, awaiting more from Amanda…