Harp

Written November 17, 2013 Fields of flowers Rest around our heads While photos of blood Surround our beds On pedestals we stand Preaching to the world Something foretold By heretics in white And neighbors in black Who claim they already knew that Rain beats down on my roof To the tune of Duke Ellington And to the Scat Man we dance It's all we have left in this world Penniless pockets Play the vagabond game While the vultures in Eden Circle the insane Who hear the angels sing Refrains and quatrains Who can be a spokesman For those who cannot speak A preacher for the downtrodden A dollar dropped at hand For the bum on Main and Port Traveling through strife No child or wife To dedicate his life No hope to beat his drum No harp for strings he's strung