Thank you to Zikweb for the interesting pieces that made up Constance. I hope you like!

The Rebellion Plods On

The first sight I catch is a flag, slung from the back of a car, but nowhere near the action,
Like a star flung far from its galaxy.

Much closer, I get off the subway, and emerge. The din, the noise hangs in the air
Like the sound of a thousand shoppers who hit the wrong key fob button at the mall
The low and constant hum hangs in the air, wraps itself around the grey city snow
And circles through the air like a lost pigeon.

They wander, dressed in red, dressed in orange, thinking they have come here to find meaning
But context eludes everyone who wanders here, no deeper roots can be grown.
But they plant them anyway, willow roots cracking pavement and bashing concrete.
The city is consumed by the desperate, the streamers, the protesters - but I repeat myself.
Because everyone is live streaming - too busy on their phones to make the rebellion happen,
And yet too busy rebelling to make the life they live on their phones happen either.

I have watched this for a thousand years. Every once in a while, it seems like a passerby can see me, but the feeling never lasts. Every soul on the streets is its own solar system, with planets that orbit suns, with comets that wipe out and repopulate worlds. Too much disaster strikes to peer beyond the wreckage of our own lives.

And so the rebellion plods on. These walls that close in, uniformed blue and khaki, they are relentless too. Shift changes keep them that way. The cheerleaders do their dance, safely at home, like drone pilots who keep finding targets. They can egg on the chaos, because William Wallace now only lives on TV, and draws no breath except by the hand of Mel Gibson.

I yell and shout. Nobody hears me. Nobody hears anyone. And the rebellion plods on, and on and on.