They busted the windows on Wall Street today
Trash cans filled with garbage and old food made the first crack
And sent all the happy people in nice suits scurrying
For once thinking about something other than the numbers
That make them better at ignoring the rest of us.
They stepped over the banana peels and potato chip bags
The crushed soda cans that should have been recycled instead
On their way to the exits, the only light they were
Suddenly focused on—But that kind of thing isn’t really my style.
Trash cans filled with garbage and old food made the first crack
And sent all the happy people in nice suits scurrying
For once thinking about something other than the numbers
That make them better at ignoring the rest of us.
They stepped over the banana peels and potato chip bags
The crushed soda cans that should have been recycled instead
On their way to the exits, the only light they were
Suddenly focused on—But that kind of thing isn’t really my style.
They’ll gather up a million men and women tomorrow
And put them in matching T-shirts that say “Not Going Back”
With rapidly practiced chants, call-backs to great leaders
Of yesterdays gone by, times we thought we had moved beyond
Times we assumed we had put behind us. I can join them
Of course I can. It’s the least—the very least, if I’m honest—
I can do, right behind merely sending money on my phone
While I stream Agatha All Along on Disney Plus. But
It still doesn’t quite feel like the thing I was created to do at this time.
They dyed their mohawks in rainbows and shoved the middle finger
Into the air while their fans screamed and moshed and bled
Showing camaraderie, empathy, solidarity the only way
They understood fully, with anger, with energy, with activity.
And it felt amazing to jump, and yell, and raise my fist, and shout obscenities
At the powers, and yet… Even when they kissed—tongues and leather
And lace and fingers and hair—Man on man, woman on woman,
Man on woman, trans on trans, Trans on straight
Straight on till sunrise… It still was not enough.
Yesterday I am a writer. Tomorrow I paint in words. Today
I have words or many colors, many spectrums that correspond
To those that swirl in the sky, dance in the puddles, blur through smoke
“Vandalize” city walls with slogans: Trans rights are human rights.
Abortion is healthcare. Gay and proud. Black lives matter.
I have all these, and my keyboard has been selfish, complacent,
Too satisfied in my place of safety. But no more.
I cannot break windows. My knees may give out on a march.
My money can only go so far. My shouting can be drowned out by other music.
But I can write. And by God, I will. We are not going back.
(c) 2024 Sean Taylor
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