Poem: The Patriot

[jakebe]

I know it seems like I've gotten on this whole political kick, but really, it's just the words. :)

*****



When he learned that the fighting had stopped,
he was glad only for the men who would come home
and repopulate the streets, resurrecting the cafe
that had seen nothing but lean times since they left.
He grew annoyed with the flags that danced the streets
on the next morning, burying anything familiar
under a writhing, dizzying sea of colors that had
nothing to do with this particular neighborhood.
The cracks in the stone were covered, and so were
Mrs. Brightman's prize potted garden.
He growled and muttered all through the ticker tape
parade, which had come to fill the streets with
noise and pride,
none of which he had any use for. This wasn't what
the war was supposed to protect.
He swept late into the night, devoted to the end,
his eyebrows crackling with quiet pride,
doing obeisance to the only thing worth being loyal to:
the pattern of cracks that lined his sidewalk,
and the knowledge that marble steps would always be his
to lean on when he was tired of walking the distance
from the home to his cafe.



Harry Potter tonight! Woo! :D