Silver and Black
A flutter of silver and black
streaks in peripheral vision
frames the daily snowstorm.
Those are people holding signs
to protest the latest outrage.
Or maybe they’re the residue
of victims adrift on global
currents too strong to resist.
I lean over the bridge rail
and admire the Rorschach of ice
forming where two rivers meet.
The snow fondles me all over,
the last of my wanton lovers.
The black streaks could be death
ripped from neoclassical texts.
Not actual death but an argument
about the interstices of the past
corroding the useable present.
The silver could be the tint
of my unruly old man’s hair
ransacking imperceptible winds.
I return to my roadside position
and wave my sign: America
for Workers Not Billionaires.
The silver and black converge
as passing traffic honks and yells
curses or praise, silver or black,
the snow absorbing the pain.
No comments:
Post a Comment