Procession Poem by Joe Bisicchia

Our lives in the city are finite, and our sufferings do end. So much disappears or just goes back to clay. This latest funeral lines the street and makes its way. Cars follow through the red lights. Observers, we turn and wait our greens.

Seems people brake with age quicker than their brick face estates. And all the while, the hardness of the city returns to the softness of a backyard garden, the one we are on our way home to, as we fill the hallowed ground. There, from all the holes the flowers arise and need tending, the loves need mending, and the hearts need sowing, as if each is tender as the amaryllis, and yet somehow even more enduring.

Sometimes it takes the deadness of a red light for the seed's skin to break apart and reveal all that streams from what was thought to be just emptiness.



Published by Anti-Heroin Chic,2018