We see you now and then, Picking about in the thrift store, At the end of the wonky arcade. Pulling on threads and holes, That were torn so long ago.
But you never seem to buy anything, As if touch and sight were enough to grant you possession. What are you thinking? Are you remembering the years that have passed -
The friends, the protests, the civil upheaval in the name of peace? Or, Do you think of the future - None of your friends are left,
The protests dwindled to nothing, Broken placards turn to mush in the rain, And the civil upheaval, well, the world cannot afford peace. Your legacy could never be sustained. What were you thinking?
Or do you merely sigh at how much it all costs these days? Even in the thrift store. You would have made your own - Macrame and hemp, Knitting dolls and patches. Such colour! Flesh feathered like flowers.
But this is not your day, This is not your life anymore, Your hands have grown stiff with arthritis and age. You, who stood so strong and so proud for justice, You, so beautiful as you raged and loved.
You, condemned to the scrap heap. You've been forgotten, Like all these clothes in the thrift store, Picked at and pulled, Patched and torn,
And never, Not once, Brought to the counter.