stained
there’s a red stain on the cracked driveway
it’s no longer wet to the touch
yet it still drips onto the yellowing paper promises
we keep under lock and key and glass
in the places we call sacred
what kind of man does it take to hide in the honeysuckle
to shoot another man in the back
for the simple act of wanting to be human
Utah Philips said the government doesn’t give you your rights
so it can’t take them away
that’s too simple, though
for that to be true, we all have to decide it’s true
we’re a long, long way from that day
for now, those whom a few of us elect
and those they choose in turn
get to decide which of us gets a key
to the small red gate set into the high wall
they’ve built around the last expanse of open space
standing on this cracked driveway
feeling the red stain through the soles of my shoes
I’m not hopeful that all that many keys have been made
27 February 2013
Auburn, AL
/ / /
This poem was partly inspired by this column by Charlie Pierce.
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