On Observing the 'Occupy' Movement

Tents pitched in muddled lines,
A river of canvas extends to my feet,
I test it with my toe,
Surprised to discover
It’s tepid flow,
I thought, after a fashion,
This river would be hot with passion.

A drum beat begins,
Like a dragon boat rhythm,
Stoking up a strength of feeling.
‘That’s more like it!’ I exclaim
And for a moment, I am reeling,
But nothing else came;
Just an endless loop of the same.

A sandwich board
Floats by on the waters of fate;
Some poor diplomat, now unemployed,
‘Gambled his wages
To feed his four boys’.
Not a shred, does this poor man own –
To my surprise – except his smart phone.

A kerfuffle emerges on the pedestrian path,
700 hundred officers
Descend on one man
As he kicks with his legs
And makes fists with his hands.
As the cops nullify this serious threat,
Some wand’rer returns with a shop-bought baguette.

What I beheld seemed the lost art of protest,
And just as I thought this scene
Could not parody itself more,
Yet again, this flimsy facade
Provided contradiction for me to endure;
A gentleman rapping and selling CDs,
Will never force Wall Street down onto its knees.

And as I stood, bemused on the sidewalk,
A sadness flooded my mind,
What became of this bastion of the free?
A shop window to display one’s individuality;
Or better, one way glass, to hide the irony.