POEM: POSTURBAN PEOPLE
We stand on the back on a tiger,
legs braced against history
and all it encompasses and avoids
with its sandals, its sepia plexiglass,
its creaky knees.
And we look to you, the three of us,
the centuries. We wait for you to speak.
To utter or to change.
And we smirk down at you
with the confidence that you will.
Nothing falls from your lips but ivy,
and even that creeps upward:
a sword raised skyward,
the laces on a pointless boot,
the big bad thought
you're looking up to.
-- GGP