Shadows of Tom Payne

Half a generation after heavy iron metal toys
Came the Dutch East Indian phenomenon
Of thick framed rubbered Packards
Racing on the marble sills
Of six story walkups.
Eavesdropping housewife’s gluttened with gossip
Telephoned through sealed dumbwaiter doors.
Global catastrophes seemed Morse coded
In half hidden whispers
As the news of Pearl or Batan
Tweaked our nostrils;
Reminding us that all our wars
Catalyst the spiteful angst of family feuds
Like the Hatfields and McCoys…
Tom is resurrected
Through the passions of those who stand full vigil
On the excesses of mercenary armies
And uniformed Americans.
Those who quarter, rob and rape civilian populations…
We gently put to rest
Tom’s later debacles and destitution.
Our silence kindly comatizes,
As it also censors,
Those traits which always
Leave us skeptical
Of ceasefires
And more cynical of former enemies
Transfigured as allies by the time of peace…
He was a warrior at War with officers and bureaucrats
Whose aim was to organize and control modern war.
Their progeny are granite faced
With stealth and smart bombs
And cyberspace battle games
Of swat teams hits and snipered marks…
For Tom and I there will always be boney
Straw hat farmers
Tilting backward on a wicker porch chair,
Cradling a 12 gauge shotgun in their laps;
Meeting out personal retribution
For a stolen cow,
A trespass in his woods,
Or a disparaging remark
Made public at a country dance.
 

 Ken Siegelman
Brooklyn Poet Laureate
February, 2008