Seven

Seven

This choice to sit is an
unusual move, a seed of
discontent in the soil of inaction

But how it grows.

Those at home,
asleep in the murmur of
behemoths grappling for
their amusement, find their
pre-game cluttered up

Give us our easy patriotism,
our singing contest losers,
our military flyover

Not this kneeling irritant

But the quarterback has his
own clutter: bodies on asphalt,
dangerous uniforms, the ease of
firing a bullet into dark skin

Our history is too
ugly for us to acknowledge.
We have built a nation on the
dark backs and now we
hate them for their scars

The target is obvious,
the number seven on a
bright red jersey,
The broad back of a
kneeling millionaire

How dare you demand your rights.
How dare you not stand.
Men died for this country,
this country that hates your skin

If you doubt our passion,
we will set fire to our shoes.