For May 1st, one day late

The first of May
a tragic misforgiving happening
the riot or march not to my fancy
(or not fancy enough for my soft feet
though no red banners or black clad youth
set fires or speeches on my street,
leaving I alone to speak the truth
but I will not today
my tongue unaccustomed to valor and heat)
I would rather march to work
and there watch an unfortunate lad
wait for someone, or maybe
work up the courage to say hello
and  there hear an old man
wearing glasses, with long pauses in his speech
explain his theory of speaking in stereo
the lies of archaeology
and the death of trees
that is, I would rather not have marched here
but there is no one home
and travels await me.