By Patrick T. Reardon
After clangor parade,
after wailing trombones, teletype drums,
clockwork drum majors and majorettes,
after cymbal clamor of arena-full horde,
pent-up for release,
for rebound off rafters — where he watches —
after rally cheer harmonization,
after “We Want,”
incantatory demands of a vengeful god —
delirious rapture screed from bully pulpit,
climax after climax of the easiest sort,
free as the master’s son,
free as the us of them,
free of sin and tribulation,
free of confession and penance,
free of will, freest freedom.
Sweeping up after, in empty silent cavern,
he sings a simple song, a light melody
of bus rides through night, hope in dark.
Patrick T. Reardon
This poem originally appeared at Spank the Carp on 10.1.20.