MEN ON THE BOSTON COMMON
Brass bands for the dead,
wreaths, taps and solemn words.
Flat a few notes for these living, buddies, a few wreaths, a
speech or two for these other unknown soldiers, blurted
from a cannon's mouth in warfare even bloodier than yours.
The dead are remembered:
once a year their souls are lodged in peace.
Buddies, a brass band for the living shells you stumble over,
crumpled on the grass: they lost their breath: honorably
discharged, declared unfit for life, they keep the home fires
burning in dug out trunks of trees; their bonus is a bench,
a bowl of soup their croix de guerre, the cop's tattooing
club salutes them.
Play taps as though you meant it,
drop a tear or two, and maybe a dime.
Mr. Frothingham Lowell, patriot, defender of the faith, husband
and lover of the D. A.
R.,
rolls past in a Packard twelve:
Look this way, Mr. Lowell (teeth hard upon your tongue) 0
look upon your handiwork, and smile.
Their souls are held together with a safety-pin, their bodies
ripped wide open with a cough; pretending to be human,
they persist in wanting food.
Dig graves, your honor, for these men;
they desecrate your hallowed ground:
shove their rotting bodies deep
beneath this earth where once your fathers fought
for freedom and for gentlemen to come.
Your excellency, unbend your frosty nose; and as you love your
commonwealth, show these beggars who you are: call out
your rubber cops, enact the Boston Massacre once more,
redeem the revolution's fountain-head, and make the Com–
mon safe for bankers and their sons.
Brass bands for the heroic dead,
statues, monuments and shrines.
ALBERT
RAFFI
17
