no more parades

the parade moves
slowly through
the empty streets.
it's not a good
parade, a few cars,
a couple of delegates
with ribbons and sashes
sitting in the back
seats, their knowing
faces grey with tight
lipped smiles.
a beauty queen or
two, pale as death
itself, with frozen
lips and a dozen
roses perched
up on a convertible.
nobody cares. behind
her a few motorcycles
rumble on, loud
and leaving a cloud
of fumes. flags line
the way. a band
of old soldiers
missing the beat,
playing on and on
into dusk. no one
gives a damn. they
just want this war
to end, and the next
one to never start.
please, no more parades.