Notes from a Poem Rewritten While Listening to Prince

Photograph by Jose Padua
The first protest I ever attended
was on a beautiful spring day
and I was asked to leave
because I wasn’t animated enough
for a spring day or for a protest
or for the guy who was filming it
who yelled “Go home!” at me
as he lifted his nose with his face
raised his right arm in frustration
then threw it back down
like a drunk tossing an empty beer can.
I don’t know,
maybe he meant for me to go home to my apartment,
maybe he meant for me to go home to my country,
but I didn’t go home and I ignored him
and kept on marching even more quietly than before.
I’d like to say that twenty years later,
the guy who told me to go home
has become one of my closest friends,
that our families get together,
my kids play with his kids,
he cooks, my wife and I bring good wine
but I don’t think he has kids,
and this isn’t that kind of poem,
and if I were to see him again today
my mind would still swell
with insults and imprecations
that I would refrain from speaking
because although I’m not good at forgetting
much less forgiving
I like to think that the world is a big enough place
for us both of us
and all of us
to live and ignore each other
as long as we agree that gray skies
can still be replaced by blue
and that years
are just these separate days gathered
by snow and dust and wind.
All of which is to say
that this is a celebration of sorts,
a poem of light and praise
in anticipation of the moment
when the heavy lifting is done for the day
because this is for you, my friend,
and you and you,
not him.
You who never told me to go home
when you could have,
you who never told me to get lost,
when getting lost
was what I feared more than poverty, madness, dying.
You who listened to me when I was young
and knew nothing,
who sat with me quietly
when I was quiet and still
in the hushed air of early morning,
waiting for animation and sound.

-Jose Padua

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2 responses to “Notes from a Poem Rewritten While Listening to Prince

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