Did anyone ever teach you how
to write a manifesto?
What did it say?
Was it written on the lines
of your grandmother’s hands?
Was it lost in the work?
Was it lost when you had children?
Was it lost when your work
of caretaking
was undervalued?
Was it used to line the pockets
of the rich and powerful?
Was it given away with a sigh
or sold for food on the table?
Was it buried in the fields?
Sewn into the clothes,
Fit into the pipes,
Welded into the sewers,
Hammered into the houses
Wired into the grid?
Could you find it if you looked?
In the cast iron pipes holding our cities together with forgotten dreams?
Did anyone ever teach you how to write a manifesto?
It’s in your mother’s
mother’s
mother’s tired face
and your father’s
father’s
father’s worn out feet.
Ask them NOW about their dreams
and when they tell you write it down.
Sing it down.
Draw it down.
And hold it and show it and scream it
and scatter it on the wind
and don’t let the greedy ones cover their ears because this is about all of us
and all the dreams
that were planted
and are still waiting for you.