Go on, little poem;
Go down the hill and get in line
With the others.

There are hundreds of you now
Trying to stand as tall and straight as soldiers
Holding fixed bayonets at the ready.
But most of you are small,
Bent little things,
Like a long rank of twisted teeth
Standing stubbornly in your sockets.

You are barely strong enough to stand
And give testimony
To how someone once lived
And raised you
In all your misshapen fortitude.

But, go on;
Go get in line,
Like old-time farmers
Leaning on long handled hay forks,
Gossiping at market.
You tell them
After I’ve gone.

Show them my crooked scowl,
My bent grin.

Stand, like strikers, holding aloft
Your placards and slogans.
Stand against the bullies and braggarts,
The privileged and the aloof.
Stand in line after I have lain down
And make a good bit of noise.