I lunched at the feet of Robert E. Lee in New Orleans,
his bronze likeness proudly perched astride Traveler.
Not a thought crossed my mind,
even as those he fought so ardently to enslave
walked before me through the courtyard.
In Biloxi I leaned comfortably back
against Beauregard’s polished boot,
sipping a Coke in the midday sun.
Finishing it off with an insouciant sigh
and a friendly wave
to the old black man on a nearby bench.
In Charleston I arranged to meet a friend
at the park in which Jeff Davis stands proudly
gazing out across the harbor
where slave ships came and went.
We chatted amiably, in no way
inconvenienced by history’s embrace.
And it was Richmond, I think, where
I sought coolness from the noon sun
in the shade of Stuart, his horse rearing majestically.
I even took a moment to read
the inscription at the base,
details of his dedication to the cause.
At no point during or after these casual moments
did it occur to me to say anything,
to write to anyone, sign a petition, join a protest.
It was all so innocent, unworthy of a second thought.
But now, years later, as at least a few of these
callous testaments to savagery and ignorance
begin to come down,
a century or more past due,
I am forced to acknowledge my complete
lack of influence in any of it.
One perfectly articulate and thoughtful person
who lifted not a finger,
lost not one moment’s sleep.
Maybe it doesn’t rise to the level of complicity.
Maybe it does.
One more thing to ponder
in the days that remain.