There's almost silence
at the graves of
Wounded Knee. Wind-blown beads
on deer-skin shoe-strings
clink against broken
Thunderbird bottles.
Bud cans tumble
across dead dried grass.
Townie high school kids, bored
in history class, left them, homage
to something the young, liberal
teacher
said in whispered tones. He’s on the
Principal’s
shit-list again, not much liked by
most
parents, too, who, in private, still
say,
the only good ones, are dead ones.
Can you image? It ain’t right,
but who made the wrong?
Kids say, not us - we played
no part. Besides,
dinner’s waiting at home.
Meatloaf. Let's go.
It would be
a shame if it
got cold.
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