Tracker

What they thought
was benediction
in solidarity with all
was in fact
valediction, a farewell
to the march as it
moved past.

When it had passed
he stepped into the dust
that still mumbled of all
who’d just been there.

He bent to the carpet
of tracks and looked 
and listened and even
touched his finger to it
then put it on his tongue
as he’d seen trackers do
in old Westerns.

He had no idea 
what he was supposed to learn
from any of that, except

that there was no trace
of himself there in that relic trail.

He’d known that before
he made that elaborate show

of seeking knowledge there.

So: here it was revealed.
A misinterpreted show,
all of it: the speech, the life,
the effect he’d had. They 
were gone, he was left 
standing in the dust behind.

Squaring his shoulders.
Wiping his eyes.

Picking a direction
other than theirs.

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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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