Here I Am
Here we are again,
with our fists wrapped around posts,
with our lungs in our throats,
shouting for the rights we already know we deserve.
Icey air in our mouths, freezing ears and fingertips while a speaker attempts
to inspire some sort of rebellion
in those of us whose fires are already burning dim from a lifetime of fighting.
Here we are again,
in the streets with the poor who black-suit officials promised to serve.
In the back of trucks with bumper stickers that could lead to a bullet
in the crystal glass of a windshield.
running campaigns for losing offcials who stare red-tie devils in the eye.
Here we are.
Here we go writing letters, and here we go writing jokes;
satrical cartoons posted in newspapers that only people who already agree will read.
Here I am with my lips cracked
Here I am with my stone mask
Here I am, hands behind back
as red white and a shock of blue remind me of rights that are not the rights I'm asking to have.
There they go - busloads of voices we've all heard before.
I didn't think we'd still be looking at ghosts of them in our reflections.
We didn't think we'd be standing this far from the ending.
There they are, alone in cozy houses in warm beds, but here I am
outside their homes with torches of words.
Beautiful and brave and poor as a sinner
loving who and what and where I see fit while shouting down the reciever of an old and dusty telephone;
Here I am. I am real.
Can't afford a meal, or a liscense, or a coat
but here I am to tell you it's okay -
we will heal.