Ode to the Homebound Marcher

“The not-words on the sign were illegible”,

a lawyer didn’t say.

I imagine such an excuse could only come

from one who didn’t want to read them.

Somewhat abstract, they seemed quite clear to me —

blue paint thick on cardstock

potential outlines of pressed leaves

indisputable authenticity.

One of a kind! Kind of one to remember.

Screaming hands!

Screaming heart!

Screaming fireworking mind!

And the artist holding his canvas like a protest sign

above the nonchalant slouch prone to suchaged backs.

What a poster! Handpainted and all.

The not-lawyers of our world don’t always get it.

“A voice isn’t taught, you know,” I didn’t reply.

“A voice isn’t generated.

A voice is found.”

I will pull my clarity like a writhing fish out of the sea of myself.

My fish. My hands. My sea. My self

so full I could not starve for structured lies.