White folks revel in their shiny excuse to sit in lawn chairs
on sidewalks and in shoulders of suburban byways
as hordes of local girl scouts, boy scouts, veterans
and volunteer everythings march by;
the bolder of the genus call this
painfully rhythmic catastrophe a parade
but I have other, more descriptive names for it
that will be left to the imagination for decency's sake.
My town feels the need to indulge in two of these
festive forays twice a year: today's occasion
being Memorial Day, the other one I'm not sure of
though summer's Labor-related bookend holiday seems
to ring a bell for more than the end of white-wearing season.
Again with those pesky whites.
All roads and thoroughfares in the vicinity of my quiet abode
are blocked off to make way for the bagpipers, buglers
and their brain-dead spectators. I'm a captive in my house
for three to four hours all in the name of a local tax expenditure.
With so many squad cars and fire trucks present it seems to be
a good time to rob a bank or burn your ex's house down
assuming you don't mind walking there.
I'm forced to catch up on my reading in this air-conditioned cell.
But who am I kidding? I'd be sitting here doing the same
even if I could escape the confines of the casa.
As long as my closed windows protect my throbbing head
from the incessant thump of the bass drum I'll be fine.
At least
they spare me the irony of doing the same on Independence Day.
Currently reading:
"The Poetry Anthology, 1912-1977"
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
No comments:
Post a Comment