have dark hair
and red throw rugs.
They burn paper in bathroom sinks.
Their voices refuse to suffer
and their silences know the way
straight to the heart;
it’s bus route number eight.
They sing all day.
They drum
and at night
they put on their shawls and dance
thundering on wooden floors,
the feet saying
no more
no more
and those on floor number one
who are scrubbing
put down the gray cloth
and beat on the tiles. Take notice
we are done
with your scrubbing
and gluing together your broken stones
and with putting the open sign
around the neck of night
and bolting the sun to save your warehouse
from thieves and crooks.
You could say the sky is having a collapse,
you could say it’s our thunder.
why I am beating on the floor
and my name has been changed to
Those Who Thunder.
Tell him through the storm windows.
Those are fists he hears pounding.
Tell him we are returning
all the bad milk to the market.
Tell them all
we won’t put up with hard words and low wages
one more day.
Those meek who were blessed
are nothing
but hungry, no meat or potatoes,
never salsa or any spice.
Those timid are sagging in the soul
and those poor who will inherit the earth
already work it
so take shelter,
take shelter you,
because we are thundering and beating on floors
and this is how walls have fallen in other cities.