Too few willing hands extended
From the right to left from what aesthetics
Pose as grave necessities: youth seems void of ethics
In the run from pillar to posts upended,
Weaving final straws, in reality
Yet the amputée’s words for bigotry and oppression.
His hands are mortified, suppression
Of familiar gestures favour finality
In the next young man―his father’s futures in arrears.
Phantoms of his mother’s milk are fears
Of yesterdays and something they forgot to mention―tears,
Sir, f course. There would be tears, there are always tears
And now in nightly memories I see it was their sacred task
While they were here to be the answer to all it was I asked.