(01.01.02)
Refortified by state
troopers in
black jodhpurs
And full tactical belts,
heavily-armed,
Owl-eyed boys in
camouflage, a fussier
Staff of ticket agents,
and the
usual if now
Beefed-up legions of
security personnel
(A blunt force which,
having seen
in us
A new appreciation for
their skills,
Are, all things
considered, much
nicer).
It eases first, then
releases the
mind
To gauge its own
insecurities,
That soft jolt of
adrenaline which
Reminds us we have cast
our fates
At the brink of
something we canât
defend,
Or defend altogether,
against whatever
Else might be waiting out
there.
And something about this
milling
ruckus
Of wary selves backed
up and forming
Into broken lines asks us
to consider
this:
"Why does anyone ever
leave home?"
And the answer is suddenly
hard
to find.
Not enough so that
anyone actually
steps
From line, but enough to
simply
Make us all a bit more
sheepish
and afraid.
At least, that is, until a
hand
floats up
Above the mantled,
green-lit arbor
and,
With a sense of divine
authority,
Guides us forward with a
beeping
wand,
A gesture by which we
canât help
feel
That weâve been
rightly singled out
For all weâve ever
claimed to be:
An army of unarmed
travelers who,
Not only would not do
others harm,
But remain unhindered
by those who
do.
© by Sherod Santos
