Warriors
You dwarf the
words of the poet: you,
the warriors of
Stella D'Oro.
For the best I
might ever do
is recount this
story which your deeds
have already written.
The end, it
seems, was composed by others—
who have more
power but less humanity.
A toast,
therefore, to all still holding
heads high,
proud of their humanity.
For this is the
common cause any poet
might share with
those who fight
for justice.
Each one of you
will always have
your humanity:
the many-thousand acts,
small and large,
of sacrifice and sharing,
the comradeship,
the sheer magnitude of what
you have achieved.
Not one crossed
the picket line. No,
not one.
For
these things can never be taken away
no matter how
much equipment
is dismantled,
moved to another state—
just as the poet
will always
have the written
word, even if
our world might
not be ready yet
to listen.
It seems you
spoke too soon, you
the warriors of
Stella D'Oro,
before our world
was ready to listen.
Still, I refuse
to lose heart, assert
that one day the
bosses and billionaires
will spend a
little time of their own
on the
unemployment line—after
the working
people of New York City
have taken control.
And then we will
turn that old building
in the Bronx
(you know, the one that used to be
the Stella D'Oro
bakery) into a must-see
destination,
marked on every
tourist map, a
shrine which pilgrims
can visit in
their millions to learn,
remember, offer
a tribute
to your
struggle—writing, thereby,
an alternative
ending to the story
of Stella D'Oro.
And the poem
that you have composed for us
during this
strike year of 2008/2009 will touch
their hearts as
each one listens to its words—
overflowing with
your humanity, the many-thousand
acts of
sacrifice and sharing, the comradeship,
the sheer
magnitude of what one,
small,
courageous
work-place was
able to achieve
and finally understand.
Yes, each one of
them will,
finally,
understand.
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