The last thing civil...

I am the haunted room, the angry spirit,
The wrath of men that drive,
Close to the curb after nightfall.

I am the found child, the hidden smile,
I am the man who cannot be nice any longer,
I am the wrath of a dusty child with
forever frayed laces.

I am folders filed away never to be seen again,
The irritating creak in a floorboard,
Waking you at night,
The countenance of all things shired.

I am the reigning face.
The memory creeping in at dawn.
I am the wrath of women
kneading dough in tropical places.

I am the special one,
The one who holds your smile,
I am the crisp thing.
Spring laundry.
The hope of the last mile,
The letdown of the first.

I am the hurt of women who take to stages,
After midnight.
The sermon beating down from altars.
I am the wrath of your universe,
Your world of four walls.

I am the cinder burning close to your fingertips,
The end of the wick,
The last of the wax.
I am the relent of answers evaded,
without end.

I am the denial of girls on their backs,
eyes toward heaven.
I am the sun that will never rise.
I am the wrath of the history of scorn.

I am the trophy of racial ambiguity,
The perfect shade to not offend,
your black or your white.
I am the beginning of a rite.
The last thing civil.

I am the pace of an older time.
When sophisticates and their formality were sublime.
I am the rising, ringing vapor of present loss,

I am the anchor of motion.

I am the hunger of a thousand child soldiers.
I am the diseased water they drink,
The wrath of raped mothers grieving children,
stolen away.

I am the dance with no melody,
The tune you can hum,
But cannot remember the lyrics.
I am the wrath of young boys,
Covered in grime and eyeliner,
Jumping into the cars of men
on the strip.

I am inside your time,
But, outside forever.
I am a night, with no stars.
A darkened sky, with no rainfall,
The wrath of a life,
less lived.

Jason Christopher Johnson
December 18, 2012