I am too old to think life should be fair but I find myself still there far into middle age. Which made me think of your poem, written after a trip to D.C. for a protest against the Vietnam War when I was 9 years old. You entitled it: “On The Way To The White House”, back then one could actually protest in front of the White House. The old days, when Presidents were not so afraid of the American people.
On The Way To The White House
Your hair nestles red against your neck;
your blue beret of peace, new-bought at the march,
perches not quite straight-
slender, serious, face peach-white,
head and placard high,
no coke stain yet on your new blue dress-
of course a photographer stepped off the sidewalk
and snapped four shots to be sure of you.
One once grabbed four of us in Moscow-
a soldierly mustache,
a Tartar brow,
a handsome Latin,
and me-
stood us hurriedly abreast,
a four-headed portrait of amity;
four languages shrugged, shook hands, smiled hard.
Pravda didn’t print it.
We won’t see you in the Times,
natural as it is to you that snapping is printing,
to expect to be a picture in the paper,
a name in print,
not knowing now what natural you are.
Yet you saw through us early:
a rule for children, another for grownups;
it’s just not fair,
your moral razor.
Nine year devil, astonishing us with conscience,
at work on data out of sight-
you make me take you to Washington,
for the train trip, I know, in part, and
because your brother gets to go, but
already, patriot,
you can love your country
and want to stop its war.
Your lovely red hair will find you love,
and love’s pain, womanhood.
Your conscience, intelligence and love,
may they find courage,
past hate, despair,
for an American heart.
