Dark Theater

His father made him work in the hot fields From sun-up to sun-down When he was just a lad. Called him a thin-lipped sissy boy When he sat by the fire reading Chaucer A no-good, lazy, son of a— Well His mother died when he was nine. There she lay in the one-room shack Cold and blue and Father made him cut the box Throw the dirt on till the last tear was buried. In New Orleans he saw them Chained Fat white men poking at their teeth Smoking thick cigars Piling them in wagons with Sacks of flour and beans. At Gettysburg he saw the blood Dark stains that wouldn't wash away The pieces of men who lay in tents The mothers who came to weep over white stones. What good were words in such a place? "Our American Cousin" was such a Delightful play A frothy diversion from all the pain But the bullet cut the comedy Short. The tragedy is not to be denied. From generation to generation Lights are extinguished And darkness threatens Until some one stoops To bear the torch. ~ Laurence Overmire (Previously published in Mind Fire Poetry Journal, Nov.1999; Liberty Grove Poetry Review, Vol 2, Issue 19, Aug 8,2000; Poets4Peace, Nov.2000; Honor and Remembrance, Indelible Mark Publishing,2007)