I can see Martin.
On that balcony.

Hosea.  Jesse.  Martin.  Ralph.

But you will say,
my mind is playing tricks.

That was the night before,
right?  Before
he gave that speech
to those garbage men,

going to Mason's Chapel in pouring rain,
tired as he was.

Sure he would march.
But who would guess,
his final speech

would come in Memphis?

The baritone softly hums "Precious Lord,"
 and he smiles.

Wrong again.
That was the day

it happened.

I can see Martin.
At that Negro motel.

He throws out his chest,
waves his hand as he speaks,

guffaws
into the nip of an April twilight,
perhaps picturing his "four little children":

a robust man, he tells
of what he sees atop the mountain-

in the land beyond,

in the view.

"Oh! . . . "

The bullet pierced its intended,
and Ralph gently cradled
Martin's dying head.  Who, now,
will choose redemption,

suffering-to implement the dream?

I see Martin carried.
From the Lorraine.

A widening pool of still-warm blood
turns brown.