Trauma Song, Minor Song

We have good things 
on our to-do lists:
take time to visualize a better world,
speak gentle ill of the rich,
dance like we’ll never
be asked to dance again.

A rising wind carries to us
a song of trauma —
no one singer, a plural song — 
beggars’ voices rising. 

We open
the blinds and the window itself
and hear a bit of it so, 
in just a moment from now, 
we can go out and drop coin into its cup

and then choose to ignore it. 

Granted, that song 
won’t end so easily 
just because we put cash 
in its loving cup
as it sits on the sidewalk keening,

but we feel better
believing 

we did something, 
even if it was something minor,

to keep
the minor song
in the minor key alive

a bit longer. 

“The country
seems so sad these days,”
we sigh as we turn away. “It sounds
so, so sad. It must be
the wind.  It must be something
in the air.
So much better when we couldn’t hear it.
We’re sad that it has to be sung,
glad that it’s being sung 
elsewhere.”

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About Tony Brown

A poet with a history in slam, lots of publications; my personal poetry and a little bit of daily life and opinions. Read the page called "About..." for the details. View all posts by Tony Brown

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