Struck Thursday

Struck Thursday

I struck work on Thursday, early since I was always the first to reach
The kids were setting up wickets on the asphalt, I tipped my hat and
Walked on down the hall, my allegiances firm and centered all right.
Nations are made of the people. Nations win if the people do.

I hold fast my sobriety like a baby as I watch the tires burn high and black
I hold fast my newborn conviction that thy kingdom will come to those who
Pray to dissent and resistance. That the way sold as the way is but
Phoenician bauble at the gates of dawn. I slash. I burn.

Friday night, they told me I was free to go, free to protest, free to speak my mind.
Together we stepped into the night, the cold air like a sword at our throats,
Dreaming of daughters and wives and hot dinners and weeping mothers
Ahead of us, the night waited with her bullets and her justly red blood.

I reached early to work on the weekend. The Directors lots were full by then.
The trolleys were heavier than ever, the canteen was more silent.
What was wrong was what we said, how we said it, and why we did.
In our tongues lay our being. Sold out, the news channels lead you..

I don’t have time, not this Sunday, no, not even the next. Next month is good though.
By then tears would have dried, all anger dissipated compensation commemorated
By then our north would have realigned with the convenience stores of tomorrow
Where our souls sell without our knowing, and language is only media.

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