Round Up

Sometimes I wonder what evidence it will take.

Sometimes, between dodging rounds of flying bullets,

Or fleeing the toxic spew of chemicals, or even crawling

Out of the forest fire burning my future,

I wonder what evidence it will take

To change those lead-poisoned minds of the spiritless folks

Gone white with the privilege of age.

.

I wonder how many tongues will have to swell and stick

From the pesticides and unspoken words of loathing

Before the banging fists of science sway hands calloused

From choking out life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness.

How many decades will pass before the slaughter turns itself around,

And declares war on the steady hands

Reloading the smoking gun?

.

Too many.

It is a toxic pastime to fill the bottle, hook it to the hose,

And grin as the pretty little things scream.

It is a hobby to mutilate, to destroy, to behead flowers.

I will not step up to the plate and take your sword.

I will not apologize, kneel under the guillotine,

And stare into the bucket, let my words quiet to soothe them.

.

Please brake for snakes, watch for deer, and let the turtles cross

But remember to dump your poisons into the water

And slaughter the little yellow signs of life in your ward.

Keep an eye out for the rebounding hawks and eagles

So that you can shoot them down again in the morning,

Feed on their carcasses and let their sick offspring be the problem

Of a generation deemed weak for caring.

.

The world was your oyster and now it is a dried-up,

Parched desert full of your carefully placed landmines.

I am weak for walking through the explosions

To set free the flying things you deemed worthless.

But my spine is no less rigid for it.

Someday, I swear, you will come to me and try to compress it

And find that it does not yield to you.