A Card

how often is enough...
What do you mean, love?
I see the blue – 
the orange fruitful tree – 
O we would, swimming,
cross the waters of the bay – 
o you say, nay, we didn't
for it was off limits all those years
And you shed tears, forever feeling shame
that from an island paradise
the Yanquis carved a slice – 
The band 
plays saddening tunes
The city, behind wire,
so barbed and cruel
that guards who are for hire
remain untouched by grief
that others, clad in khaki uniforms
inflict on those unknown: 
a teenage boy, an old one who survived
how many simulated drownings?
Freezing cold at night,
when they poured icy water on his body
betting, laughing, shouting, roughing up
And who would give a damn if anybody died...
O yes, there was a man; they sentenced Kipriakou
when he informed the liberal paper in New York...
He got a taco with
cheese and beef and lettuce
from the journalist
He told him everything and handed him
the card
of a colleague who tortured wantonly.
He was so free. The journalist
was, too; he went and missed
to pay the taco and the price
that Kipriakou, when the dice was thrown,
would own the government of the United States.
For those who tortured and who killed
though sentenced, soon were free
The judge, the prosecutor hates
the liberty of conscience that
a brave man showed
Was it some twenty years or more
that they allowed
the prison system
to take charge of John?
I wish 
he had it seen 
                       a-coming
and was on the run.
                    

2014 
 
 
 

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