where shall I store these images?
images of promised futures
lying cold in social studies
shall I tuck them in the weary corner
of my mind already filled with
images of bloody finger painters,
disco dancers and music festivals,
midnight matinees and malls,
airports and Sunday service?
or shall I make for myself a collage,
and shove it tightly into Charlton Heston’s
cold, dead hands?
and tell the thoughtfully praying,
five-thirty-five that we want our
children to stay alive?
it’s time to change the fucking tune