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Protestors MAG
The New York streets
are flooded with protesters,
the people
some of my friends
who strive for change
in this black and white world
painted like a burning
photograph in my hands
I
see them in packs of wolves
as I look out the window of
my East 57th Street apartment.
black paint spells the letters
P-E-A-C-E but the brown-haired
man holds out a flower
to a line of guns, doesn’t he know
they’ve already won.
fueling the flaming
fire with gasoline
a cloud of smoke rises from war.
its ashes still burning
on the sidewalk I walk upon.
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