Some things are not clearer
from a distance. What grief
moves you to sit-ins, marches,
words that reverberate across
generations, and tears for a city
that was never ours to keep?
Perhaps my faith in democracy
never took root in the city
that has been steered through
the years by the firm hand of
financiers and the edicts
of the English; now quivering
between two possible futures.

Many slumber while
others shout into the void.
What of the poet whose
multiple selves struggle
to echo a singular voice?
Perhaps she might say:
it was a beautiful mess,
the days when the young
and old were moved to
sit-ins, marches, words
that reverberate across
generations, and tears
for a city that was never
theirs to keep.