Alice Folkart
A New Song
(a poem after Walt Whitman's, I Hear America Singing)
I hear
America singing,
stinging songs, carols of perils, I hear,
I
fear.
Sing
the mechanics, blithe and wrong,
strong
on selling me a valve job
or
maybe a pace maker. Or a car! Take her,
she's
yours.
The
mason singing - soon to be a Shriner
convention denizen and a fat cigar, no trowel,
thrown
in the towel long ago. He'll go far.
Boatman, sing what belongs to you,
your
boat, you know it by rote,
and
make your payments on time.
Shoemaker, hatter, wood-cutter,
sing
no more, their craft off-shored
or
roboticized, not a word, not a tune.
Mothers don't sing these days as they
hire
another nanny, cancel a meeting
and
smoochie say, "I love you," by e-mail.
No plough boys anymore, they work
at the
store now, check out the babes
plying
their trade, singing their own songs.
Each
singing what belongs to him or her and to none else,
the
TV, the game show, lottery, slots,
downsizing, uploading, digitizing songs - a buck a piece.
All
singing together, new songs for old,
bold
songs, and still melodious,
perhaps even robust and friendly, I hear them.
I hear
America singing.