Classic Poem

On the picket line
The morning starts with
A flaming mass of scorn and
Endurance;
With the parade of the humble and
Cops
With judicial assurance to
The big
Cheap buyers of life.

On the picket line
Peddlers sell red, ripe, sliced watermelon
And workers give their red blood free.
On the picket line policemen chew fleshy desires for live human steak.
On the picket line we can detect the buzzing of a bee and
The sneering of
A snake

On the picket line
Flaming contempt threatens the mild, sleepy eyes of
Early rising girls—on the early rushing picket line—
Where live governors keep guard on skins of dead squirrels.

On the picket line the city is being trimmed with
The mass of
Ripening colors of the meek.

On the red, stretched, early-morning picket line
The coarse world is at war with its toilers,
Who rise in the morning to decorate the earth.