THE LATE NOVEMBER SUN
I was three-and-a-half years to the day
When a madman shot down JFK
And wiped our hopes and dreams away
With the trigger of a gun.
The world stopped as he lay in state,
A nation wept beneath the weight
Of loss we estimate in terms
Of what might have been to come:
A leader and a President,
Democracy’s embodiment,
Uncommon friend of common men
Who fought for every one.
A statesmen and an officer
With words of courage to inspire
A nation to ask itself “What more?”
And dream of touching the moon.
I still remember how it changed
Like a book with pages rearranged
And thrown together senselessly
Just after Chapter One.
A nation fractured lost its way,
Fragmented, and began to stray
Into a state of disarray
With violent protests every day
Those harsh divisions persist today
And cannot be undone.
Looking back, we wonder now of
Who and why and even how?
How could such a thing be done?
What kind of man crouched with that gun
And waited for the car to come?
What thoughts ran in his hateful mind
As he took a breath, aimed and fired.
Assessed his work, and walked away?
And where could that man run?
It’s been many years now since the day
When a nameless, faceless, vicious ray
Of hate lashed out and took away
Our best and brightest son.
It’s hard to find words to convey
The shock that struck the world that day
Something died in each of us
In every single one of us
A dream in every beating heart
Was punctured and then blown apart
By an assassin’s bullet speeding
Aiming flashing twisting screaming
Hitting smashing cracking bleeding
In the late November sun.
(Originally written on 22 November 1993, the thirtieth anniversary of the Kennedy assassination.)
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