Eight - Poem by John McLeod
They're 'Them.' They're 'They.' They're 'Those people.'
Too many to cross or ignore,
Too vague to accuse or reason.
Wrathful, fearsome, and proud of it.
Above reproach, yet complicit.
They were a rumor, a phantom.
With no account more than themselves.
Evocative of the people
Whom I have ever known that I
Never wanted to see again.
The murk has passed, gone with the tide.
They were the strange scent in the air,
The friendly pall, the looming shade;
The squeaky wheel of righteousness,
And the grassroots of fascism.
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