The Realm of Possibility
A man in disintegrating rags stumbles along the wide sidewalk paved in granite
Passes a hand-truck loaded with food mostly destined for a trash can on the 58th floor
Of an office tower half empty
Under a flag with a lone pine tree in the center
The flag was held aloft in support of destroying all that had been built
Under a sky besmudged with soot from wildfires
Now ablaze in the prairie lands to the north
The rich flat land some yearn to call ours
Never acknowledging that none of it was truly owned by anyone
Except perhaps for those whose traditions
Honored the spirits alive in the rocks, trees, streams and skies
Those first nations supplanted by the influx of others
Who brought along the scatterlings of Africa stripped of their names
And birthright to build the roads
Chop the cotton
Ford the rivers
Roast the sacrificial lamb
While favoring concrete, steel, noise and glass
Now always glass
Mirroring, encasing
Holding us all in place
Within boxes inside a box
Panes as clear as day from the inside
Black and forbidding when seen from the outside looking in
Opposition and strife abound
No end in sight
There must be in the offing a realignment
That will harmonize us once again with first principles, simple gifts
And the smallest of the most sublime pleasures
Faithfully we must wish and work toward a horizon clear bright and endless
While the plunge into chaos continues apace
This moment, this flash of searing anger
Heart-rending pity
Confusion and swirling undercurrent of hostility
Will pass
As all moments do
What matters most is holding on to the vision and roadmap toward that which lies beyond
The realm of possibility that must stand waiting for us
The truly undiscovered country
No matter how far it may seem today from our desperate
All too often failing grasp.
David Mark Speer is a Brooklyn resident, writer and poet. The poem was written on June 19, 2025.
