A rose and a dove and a million yellow hieroglyphs
New languages shall learn to mourn
your tongue
Thumbs will tap to praise your pen
A few new fist will swing in song
Alas
All the poet laureates will someday go
Yes
the bold beatniks and the quiet quill pushers
will all close their eyes on their way to glory
The orators, the organizers, the resisters and the rest
will inevitably and indiscriminately
but unexpectedly
Go.
We will praise their words and tattoo their thoughts
We will teach their names and honor their wishes
But their bodies will be gone
We will venerate their voice and volunteer
for their vision
We will find a way to keep their words alive
But sometimes I wish I could just give them a hug
Thug Life (a poem for Nikki)
