We march, not in single file,
free hands tenderly
picking one another’s pockets,
laughter wild & unrestrained as a murder
of crows from ragged treetops.
When parents bring their kids to witness
our circus of clumsy high-wire walkers,
rather than point & mock, they stand in front
or cover young eyes—darkness, too,
about us, a kind of freedom
from candor. Who could blame stern fathers
or mothers dressed to avoid the scandal of want?
They protect their offspring from seeing
lightness in our corrupt hearts
as we juggle two flaming batons,
a spectacle to celebrate
our joy at having survived our crimes,
our punishments, check-marked innocent
on status reports, although there may
be other offenses before the band
plays its farewell notes at avenue’s end.