Poem
Maxine Beneba Clarke
Fridays
for greta thunberg
on fridays,
our children are bursting train carriages
backpacked full of hope
wielding placards bedroom-made
from flattened cornflake boxes
and upcycled tomato-stakes
on fridays,
our children raise melodic voices
meant for playing tag, or jump-rope
and take to the streets,
in every city,
million-strong,
and begging us
for hope
in the empty classrooms
silence echoes
round initial-etched desks
and lockers, left open, spill
crumpled science notes
on fridays,
our kids are forced
to become adults
on the ball court,
a lone grey hoodie hangs, abandoned,
from the hoop
every week, our children sacrifice
one-fifth of their dreams
and on fridays,
they become exactly
who we need
marching
with their arms around
each other’s tiny shoulders
and their iphones held up viral-high
they are brave enough
to defy instruction
sure enough to face the future
and smart enough
to know their minds
if they save the world
or not
on fridays,
our children tried
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