Читать книгу Twisted Shapes of Light - William Jolliff - Страница 13

Four years into this war, a handful of us stand,

herringbone-respectable, gray, well-trimmed,

sober as bankers in mackinaws and new boots,

not a shred of tie-dye in sight, our neat signs

square as cartoon trees against the continual

Oregon drizzle. It’s our First-Sunday Ritual.

We try to mingle, abandoned to ourselves in public

discomfort, stranded by hard old belief, right here

at Second and Adams. Our fingers freeze with reason:

“Invest in Peace,” “Children Matter,” “Peace is Patriotic.”

We straighten red silk ties and rub clean chins,

chapped against the wind. The cold keeps soaking in.

Passersby honk Volvos. Some smile, some shake

their heads, puzzled. Some flash our ancient holy sign,

others flick us the finger. We wrap our scarves

tighter. At last a rusty beater rumbles by, packed

with acned teens, shouting as we knew they would:

“Go back to Russia, you f*****g hippies.”

And we laugh. Finally someone’s found us out,

stared straight through what time and tweed cannot

disguise. A car on fire with those most likely to die—

few prospects, no money, sure of nothing but

their own anger. We look around our aging crowd,

remembering some of the ways a heart can break.