Our professors scolded us,

the spoon fed generation

We needed to speak out,

question everything,

carve new paths through

the streets of the city

So we did and the police

sprayed us with tear gas,

broke our heads with nightsticks

We smashed windows and set fires,

slept under trees in the park,

went to jail or Canada

Some returned in body bags

from Vietnam

When we were finished

ten years had gone by

and we only had degrees

in protesting the system

We asked our professors

what kind of deal was that?

They got angry, slammed

their office doors in our faces

and called security

After all, they had families to support

and reputations to protect

Go quietly, they said,

and keep your wise ass comments

to yourself

Next Poem