Drew Bailey
The Shepherd

He himself,
Is but a faithful gardener,
Who he himself gives hope as a beacon
To the people.
Not born but bread a shepherd,
He keeps the black sheep, the good sheep,
Close by his side as he marches down Washington Avenue.
He walks on by the men,
Women,
And children rooted firmly in the ground
Like slim little apple trees, set for baking America.
They are the iron rods that support his better bridge
Of peace and deliverance.
But the fat felines of Washington wish to trot on over
In a wicked manner,
Crushing the people beneath that bridge as though
They were silly putty.
Stupid putty.
I am not some tar baby,
Or a child of the smoke stack, no.
Mama named me Rosa, and I’ll be damned
If I do only one thing in my life that isn’t all that great.
So I’m going to Park myself on this bus,
And I ain’t moving.
So it is that I am a proud negro woman.
Swept under the rug I will not be silent.
Martin my friend,
Come hither while we sing and wait.
Wait to sing.
Hallelujah.