One Minute Poem by Nassy Fesharaki

One minute

The washer, drier
Sought another minute.

I gave them,
Stood there in silence
And observed.

They do not show seconds
I murmured to count them.

Outside, sat an old man
Lost in the days gone by.

Painted was grey-white
His torso with sunlight…

Enjoyed shade of tree,
Picturing, possibly,
Outcome of tomorrow
On bushes in front…

The hanging potatoes
And pepper, eggplant
Or other produce
From seeds he buried.

A minute to the death,
A minute to the end,
Valuable is minute.

And machines
Both stopped…

I think of Acadia…

Museum on border,
New Brunswick,
Nova Scotia…

And France losing war
To king of Britannia…

This is what was mentioned
In daily report of
"History of Today, " CBC.

Like old man when shading
I keep on wandering:
"What about those Natives? "

Foreigners, fair-skinned
Came here for fighting
On the lands of Natives!

With the horses running
And the guns firing
To kill most of Natives…

Not part of history!
Not part of history!
Not part of history!

Acadia and old man,
Drier, washing machine
Feel moments, not Natives.

I murmur the seconds
To make up for moments
And hours and the days
Even months to be years.

Time will come, soon or late
And the life will reverse.

The Natives will stand
And rewrite history.

They will be history!
They will be history!
They will be history!

Since they are generous
They may not write about
The ugly "Whites' insults! "