Page 35 - The Woven Tale Press Vol. IV #10

Bending Toward
Justice
I hear someone behind me say
in the large jury room
before we’re asked to pay attention
There are more than four seasons,
and remember our numbers. King’s
hangs from the ceiling
reminding me of the Passover death angel
The arc of the moral universe...
swallowed in flames.
The bus ride here—
a parade of small wonders— Christmas approaching
the strollers and mothers
the high schoolers, cascading about as we all move down
the Grand Concourse.
I was once lonely in San Francisco and my mother said
just take a bus
across the city.
How she enjoyed the ride.
And now, the string of lights are blowing wildly over the boulevard
See what you can see.
as if there is a fifth season some where out there
in the half dome
of a Bronx afternoon.
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