TO HELL IN A HANDBASKET
We have these conversations, you and I,
about those spawned after the world was
back when Rosie left the factory
and some of the men came home
heroes. We had our war – remember
what it cost? And before that, Crazy K
shipping missiles to Cuba, JFK
shot down in Dallas, Bobby in L.A,
MLK in Memphis on my birthday?
Conspiracies or the crazed among us
driven by something that will not die,
that fearful and dissatisfied undercurrent
we nurture, turn commercial, profit by.
Hear the hatred rattling in the grass?
Old war babies crying in their sleep, still
believing they have had a say and glad
to have a black man now to blame. Bad
times, hard times, yes – but we’ve seen
worse immersed in self—gratification.
The rock doesn’t care anymore, rivers
laugh off the mountains, but the deserts
remember every word in our heads,
every conversation wishing more to
help find a way to keep the wagon moving
without the weight of hate.
- for Robbin