Parade

Here comes the parade -

the little ones run before Him

their skipping step trips out the rhythm

of shaking dice -

once, twice, three times

they're thrown

(a cloak is owned.)

Now a steady trod

as the men pass in review

their beating feet like hammer blows

hit the street

but not a stone is crushed

(and not a bone breaks.)

But look --- upon the colt

the figure rides with dignity astride.

The eyes,

the eyes! no crowded group can see

(and yet, a thief is free!)

The parade is over.

Go home;

pick up a palm souvenir.

from Waiting for the Echo

Poems by Patricia J. Bruno