F.R. Foksal: The Indignation Parade

The Fall

I have always wondered if
by reading a paper 
upside down 
held by a man
sitting

in front of you
on a morning train full
of commuters, of mothers, of fathers,
of bosses, of beggars, of secretaries, 
of someone’s aunts and someone’s brothers,

of keepers of diaries written badly
those half-dead, caffeinated ghosts
those converted drunks of morning light
trying to make the most of the square
inch

or two allotted to them,
you ran the risk of
making your whole world
fall down on its 
head

--

The Indignation Parade

But then I saw
indignation in its purest 
form

distilled in their mouths
the ovens of 
rage

leaving their bodies
soaring up into 
the sky

souls launched with 
the advent of the last 
sigh

the miniature 
kites

a forest of fists I saw
hovering over their 
heads

once tucking their 
children
in

each fist the size 
of an extracted 
heart

the empty nests
in a chocolate 
box

but as they passed me I saw
my hand 
trembling

a vacillating fly
uncertain whether 
it should stay

      fly away

           or die

F.R. Foksal’s essays and reviews can be read at The Nonconformist.

Copyright 2020 F.R. Foksal