I wrote this piece in a virtual poetry salon I am currently attending. The prompt for this was to write a poem of praise for an unlikely group of people (aka people who’ve had a bum rap or may have been stigmatized). The prompt was adapted from the Poet's Companion, by Addonizio & Laux © 1997, Page 241. I am pleased with the result, although not terribly certain I agree with it in its entirety. I look forward to your comments, Lewis

the lovely looters

Our socks are dirty. Yeah, gasoline’ll do that. That glass is shattered Was it a rock or a baseball bat? We’re black-painted looters who justifiably explore Laid waste treasures Underneath certain doors. Knives, and ropes and bombs Made from detritus found— Leftovers from a country We no longer feel bound. We leave our last beliefs We heed the righteous calls Of loves gone before From patriotic falls. We’re looters— brave, brazen, bold, Confronting lawless rule, not worrying, not scurrying, We defy. We duel! Is it because we're on the fringe And have nothing left to lose? Or half homeless? Half derelict? Halfway to our noose? No! We fight because to not Is to give in to their lie. "People go home." We will not: We would rather die Than fall victim to your ways. We are demanding that our rights be honored on this day! That which we truly steal Is attention on this night. “You go back home, indoors!” We will stay right here! Our safety, like yours— You may command but we have grace— Is numbers. We don’t fear. They don't hear our pleas. They ignore the law. It is always that simple. We're tired and hungry and raw. Let us linger longer. Let us lift fists raised stronger. Let us march— no, protest to wrongful policies. Let them lacerate our lovely bodies. When we cannot breathe, by your say, Our hatred will sustain us and cleanse your way We won’t lay aside and let another human pass. If looting grabs attention, let the looting last.