John-Ward Leighton

SATURDAY MORNING

Photo ©Copyright 2007 by John-Ward Leighton<My ears still ring
from the sirens rushing to save you.
The sound bitch slaps
my ears every time you over do your thing.
I watched you grouped
with the others of your tribe
all shit faced and ugly.
It’s not likely I would much mourn
if you have died.
Still, it is the burden of the poor
to watch your slow suicide
because there is no place
where we can hide:
Except perhaps
in dreams, art and
in our imagination
anything to blunt
our indignation.
For those of us who choose life
and travel the journey fair
silence is the gold
we know this instinctively
we don’t have to be told.
Our stories unravel
and rattle
down the chute
of history
like so much gravel.
The solid rock
that was the future
is broken down
for our nurture.
Somewhere
beyond our ken
there is an incident
we don’t know why
we don’t know when
but all our lives will end
it could be now
or it could be then.
All we know for sure
is that we won’t pass this way
again.
Head phones on
somewhere beyond the sirens screaming
and the engines roaring
I know not of your death
or my video image
this gray
Saturday morning.