FIRST DAY OF SPRING IN FERGUSON, MO.

(After "Daffodils" by William Wordsworth)


I wandered like a tear gas cloud
     Shouting, "Black lives matter" as I trod.
When all at once I saw a crowd,
     A host of the Riot Squad;
Beside the river, beneath the trees,
Stalwart and grimacing in the breeze.

Continuous as the buttons that shine
     Upon a policeman's chest,
They stretched in never-ending line,
     Poised to make arrests;
Ten thousand saw I at a glance,
Swinging their clubs in a baleful dance.

Angry people taunt the cops; attacked,
     The once-brave marchers flee:
A poet never could be gay,
     In such beleaguered company.
I gazed - and gazed - but little thought
That, merely marching, I'd be caught.

For oft, when in my cell I lie
     In vacant or in pensive mood,
They flashback on that inner eye
     Which is the bane of solitude;
And before my head can nod
I rise and curse the Riot Squad.