it’s 1881, and your son is born
in a gleaming city of white
underneath a fog-gold sky,
a newborn living legacy.
it’s 1881, and a phone rings
somewhere, in the distance,
connecting one wire to another,
inching the world a little bit smaller.
it’s 1881, and a gunshot cracks
into a spinal column, festering
a fever for months before
assassination comes home.
it’s 1881, and the world is hot
with progress and determination,
but with rage and hate, too,
a gilded age of humanity broiling.
it’s 1881, and your son loves you.
he looks at you with such sweet blueness
and he carries with him such promise:
things will not always be this way.