slow rain
July 23, 2015 § 1 Comment
equity
falls a slow rain
and cursing at the edge
of the wasteland
are the desert builders
clearcutters
fearful
of the coming bloom
would they,
if they could defy the
direction of time,
return to their forbears’
age of struggle
to place a boot on a neck?
with every droplet
that sounds the
gong of progress
their blood rises
blood enriched
with traces
of sharecropper
of mill hand
of sweatshops and docks
makers of
steel mountains of
asphalt tributaries
backs as bent from
the weight of labor
as the paranoids are
over their hoard
their axes raised
but rusting
as
a slow rain
continues
(c) 2015 Fred Whitehead
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This is an angry poem but, unless I am mistaken, there’s hope in it – as the slow rain continues.