Twelve o’clock, the pumpkin
arrives — no chariot, no
prince, no peace. Camelot?
I hear the robust singing
fading in the rain, the cold,
dismal rain upon the parade.
It is slip, slip, slipping away
and we stare into the abyss
of what was, what could have
been but will be arrested
and detained. There is a time
for every purpose under heaven.
We pray for kairos while wander-
ing through chronos along the
waters of Babylon. We sigh deeply
in lamentation before taking up
nonviolent protestation once
again, always, again and again.