Hoping for Rain
They call it a celebration.
Two hundred and fifty years
of marching feet,
of folded flags and final salutes,
of uniforms that once meant service,
now pressed into a parade
for the man in the red tie
with his name stitched across the sky
in smoke and steel.
They roll out tanks like party favors,
shine boots like champagne flutes,
paint the cannons with the gloss of nostalgia,
while the poor are told
their hunger is their fault.
Medicaid is slashed,
food stamps trimmed to confetti
that will blow into the gutters of D.C.,
even as the spectacle flares
to frame the “Commander-in-
Chief’s”
birthday grin.
No mention of the children detained,
the fathers taken in the night
by ICE in unmarked vans,
their screams drowned out
by a flyover of fighter jets—
roaring louder than truth,
than protest,
than prayer.
Outside the barricades,
a woman holds a sign
that simply says:
“This is not what I served for.”
And a man beside her mutters,
“I’m just hoping for rain.”
Rain to blur the cameras,
to smear the makeup,
to rust the spectacle
and soak the velvet rope
that divides
power
from people.
Rain that remembers
what honor used to mean.
Rain that refuses
to bow to gold-plated egos
and autocratic fanfare.
Let it come.
Let it interrupt.
Let it fall like truth—
uninvited,
unapologetic.
Let it wash the stage
clean.
Tomorrow, tanks are set to roll into D.C. for a president’s birthday bash—a multimillion-dollar extravaganza—while the poor go without and families are torn apart.
We don’t need this.
We need a storm strong enough to shut it down.
This is my poem: Hoping for Rain.
#PoetryAsProtest #HopingForRain