Back in New York

He saw the truth

But it held little light

For their little march in Conklin

Had not even got a hint of recognition

From the Seminary he had once attended

He felt as he had through the years

‘I am nobody”

But then he realized with a smile

He now had Heavenly Guides

Abba

Jesus

They saw the whole thing

They understood

He had hoped some would see

Some of what he’d known

Back then

The magic he had felt

When he was serving in Kelly’s church in Nashville

And sang of overcoming

Could that magic be again

Seamlessly

In the timeless sense of Heaven

Rendering time itself moot

So here he was in 400 square feet

Above Broadway

Wondering

And then a tiny twinge of hope

A few years back there were new marchers

A new incarnation kindling brand new hopes

Faking out police

Open to all who joined

Armed with wondrous counsel

He remembered those robust marches

They lasted for a time and now were gone

Where were we now

Immersed in the impotence of unrelenting assault

Aware no matter how we loved Unity

A toxic illness of division, apathy, and mind-fatigue

Spread as powerfully as Covid

And infected and disabled more than a million

Many more

His only hope now was some voices would arise

And mobilize voters to stop the dismal ghost ship

Advancing, bearing lying progeny

Mouthing certainties set forth by rote

A solid performance of grass roots decency

Was now the only movement he could imagine

He shifted in his chair and looked out the window

To the ledge where pigeons gathered

Formidably nodding to each another

Before falling effortlessly into open air

The phone rang

It was a marcher checking in

Joe, about his age and vintage

“Will we do this again?” he asked

“I doubt it.”

No, they would not relive the pain

Of being in a world that no longer noticed

He would take solace in his friends beyond the veil

And continue sending messages outward and upward

In hopes that Souls unknown might would hear