BROADWAY BABES OF 1967
They fell upon us with sterile steel,
Poked, prodded, measured brains and pulse and blood,
Asked questions, like, "Does this hurt?"
Stuck fingers into what had been uncompromised flesh,
But was now raw, red holes,
Applied needles, pliers, stitched our guts,
Slapped our backs, said, "You're going home."
And we did.
Home to the dead silence of ticker tapeless unparades,
Bandless bands, no horns or uniforms, Miss Rutabaga
Not sitting in a brand new, By-God-this-is-what-we're-fighting-for
Mustang convertible (which we didn't want, anyway; the parade, that is,
Although we would have taken the convertible
And Miss Rutabaga, taken Miss Rutabaga right there
In the back seat).
Old soldiers from righteous wars
Said we should have had parades.
Politicians agreed. Some of them.
It was not an election year.