Civil Whites
by Michael Day
War torn cats
creatively maneuver their worlds without war on stoops steeped in history of a
different sort. Infants bounce from one lap to another, tragic trajectories
trickling from the corner of their young lips, dripping insecurities not yet
known. Seasons pass. The cold hard stare of winter has met its match. Cracked
lips and bleeding hearts yearn for summer justice, but live in the shadows of
winter warfare.
Transformed corners
adopt different shades of color at roughly the same pace that blood coagulates
in the wound of the wounded. Those on the cooperative corners cite green as
causation, but the color responsible for this situation is blinding.
Property owners perched
from rooftops miles away marvel at the misinformation. Like small children they
clasp their hands with glee, smiles edging the corners of their mugs. Later,
maps will be drawn with red lines, removing culture from the cats and
opportunity from their children.
The spring brings
nothing. Corners still crumple under the weight of injustice. Memories are
boarded up. Streetlights dim to the color defined as despair and abandon blocks
harbor screams for their lost patrons.
The rain ceases and the
summer befalls the cats. 68’ Chicago. Direct
your attention to the Chicago 7, but ignore the thousands, if not hundreds of
thousands, of Chicagoans still fighting. Anti-war protests for a visible war,
but there will not be any demonstrations for the war these cats faced.
One rock from the yard.
One brick from the home. One nail from the wall. Homes vanish behind Caucasian
veils. Say goodbye to your history. Say goodbye to your community. Chicago owns
it now.
Nice one Michael. We gotta hang out sometime soon.
ReplyDelete-Joe
Liking the more street language in this one, like the use of "cats." "Like small children they clasp their hands with glee." Nice. Miss you man, we gotta get together.
ReplyDelete