Protest

When I was twenty, new to
the idea of power as it related to me,
I went with friends down
to the Legislature to protest

something. I can't remember what
it was they said to me that fired
my nascent social consciousness;
it must have been good, since even
then I didn't much like crowds.

This was different, though, all
quiet and purposeful we went down Memorial,
a crowd of some three hundred or so, and more
gathering at Broadway to join us. We
were not a mob - we were orderly. This
was civilized protest, this was our right
to gather and have our opinions known.

I didn't know my opinion. I'm not sure
I had one, I was there wide-eyed and curious
like a solitary sheep among purposeful goats.
When we got to the steps, Brownian motion
herded me to the front, where I watched
the signs go up and down, shouted the words
others shouted, and tried to spot my friends
in the crowd.

When the premier came out on the steps
and spoke to us, I was unimpressed. He said
the right words, and we dispersed. I kept
some goats between me and the TV cameras
as I left, drifting down the side of the Ledge
toward the river. I found myself

a bench and sat, watching the water. Those
who protested were excused from further
classes that day, so I skipped Sociology and
Theatre Aesthetics and tried to feel
like I had done something important.