A Centennial March

You lament inside walls of necessary solitude like Nero. The world burns in invisible flames. The slow parade of rot traveling to and from the hospitals is regular. Outside, beside the lilac your grandmother planted you feel the centennial march coming again. This parade always starts with the distant crunch of gravel, toward graves. You must watch the parade. You knew it was coming. It has come again today. As the machines pass and send the routine stench through your streets, you press your face into the purple green, breathe deep, and scream. Lilac fuses with your lungs like Grandmother’s hug — pulls you in close and whispers, “Our rotted parade had also come and gone. Patience. Caution. Soon, Love.”