THESE ARE THE CAROLS I HEAR

Whitman heard America singing as
he roamed his unruly Mannahatta.

I hear America talking to itself
on our streets and subways.
Yes, loud and heavy mumblings I hear.

He heard "the delicious singing of mothers,"
of woodcutters and boatmen, of the
carpenter measuring his beam.

I hear America as distinctly off the beam.

Choirs of pain I hear, a wail of loneliness
from the broken people, those
tattered citizens, our shopping cart
legion, bumping their chariots down
the cobblestones of this Democracy.

These are the carols I hear.


Thanksgiving
1989




All written material © Bill Schechter, 2016
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