The Last Revolutionary
Jerome

     A war! A war? A war!!  America is at war again!  Wtih bombs and guns
and ships and planes – we're fighting someone else's war again.
     Patriot that I've always been, I rushed straight to the front lines of
battle – up the stairs and into the attic, frantically digging through
ancient cardboard boxes –
     Sad boxes with droopy jowls and sorrowful eyes lay limp and dead in my
hands as I pulled aside their flaps and examined their intestines – shoes,
picture albums and hundreds of moths fluttering past my head towards the
light –
     Eureka!  I pulled a dusty, ragged tangle of olive-colored cloth from
one particularly forlorn box and held it up so that if unfurled like a sail
– my father's old army fatigues.
     Back in my room I pulled on the slightly baggy clothes and admired my
reflection in the mirror, the laced up the big black boots – a little small
– I felt so alive and free.
     I marched out of the house, head held high – chanting to myself – Army
fatigues decorated with flowers and peace signs and slogans – "Make love,
not war," "Heck no – we won't go!"
     People I passed cast strange and wary glances at me as I marched ever
onward to the beat inside my head – up the concrete steps of the school and
into the mass of people who idled around, waiting for the almighty bell.
     A thousand eyes fell upon me and when I joined my group of friends
they shrank back from me slowly.  None of them were protesting – I realized
I was all alone.
     Jumped upon the cafeteria table and began to shout out my speech –
"we've fought long enough for every one else! – exercising our military
might – but this is not our fight – we can't stand for this anymore!"
     More stares, a smattering of laughs and one cheer of mock
appreciation.  I surveyed the crowd, the ignorant proud, and with head hung
low I stepped from my podium – I didn't understand.
     We're interfering again in affairs we don't know and forcing our wills
on the rest of the world – a global totalitarian regime –
     And no one cares – not even one – could I be the only one who sees?
or am I just the one lacking apathy?  So here stand – alone again – an
idealistic relic – the last revolutionary.