Moving On Up

 

Moving On Up

 

Some songs sting more than most,

but not for those reasons:

 

not love, not hate,

never the changing of the seasons

or the guard - the rennet’s set them hard -

coagulated whatever stirred.

Some songs sting because they’re heard.

 

I speak not of loss but something’s lost:

they’ve done us wrong,

moving on out, your time is up –

some bland playlist drops,

Falconer and Garraway rap

something milquetoast, rock your baby,

but I’d rather jack than Fleetwood Mac

and I always hated crap like that

 

And so say all of us, or should –

but no – so smooth, you’d gag

like you did when they served semolina.

 

One day, I predict, you’ll rue

lack of potholes, bumps in the road.

Dreams? Means nothing now.

Somebody to Love? Broken vows.

Baby Can I Hold You? You did.

It Must Have Been Love? I fled.

Moving On Up? But where?

What have you found that counts?

 

Join me, if you will, but won’t,

burn an ear, if you do, but don’t,

pardon my misgivings

but set my face in stone,

I’ll walk on, walk on, alone –

 

There’s part of me keeps on wishing

while the nation congeals,

and it grieves alongside Curtis Mayfield.