The Parade's Gone By
by Jon Ballard
Under this tree the earth’s engine idles
Like an old man rubbing his eyes, while
Wrens and sparrows mop up the confetti
Of midday light. The parade’s gone by,
You think, though when or where to exactly
You’re not so sure. The village up the road
Is hushed, while down the road where the squall
Of factories topples the cerulean temples
Of the sky…well, no use in looking there.