Steve Rogers: a poem

  • Posted on: 29 January 2017
  • By: Noah Brand

No millionaire playboy he
No captain of industry
Nor a farm lad from the heartland
Striding out of a cornfield with the world on his shoulders

He was from the Lower East Side
Much lower
The place where they kept people
Who needed to be kept in their place
One step up from the Bowery
Two steps up from the Tombs
He was skinny and weak and sickly
Because when he was little
His parents couldn’t afford milk
Or meat except on Sunday
He was a scrapper because he had to be
Because in those days
In that place
You had a gang
Or you had nothing
The Communists and the Fascists
Used to fight in the street outside his window
Because capitalism had failed
And the bread lines were getting longer
It wasn’t theory
It wasn’t academic
It was blood still drying in the gutters when he walked to school

He fights
Not for the American flag or government or border
But for the Dream
He fights on
Even after his death
No matter how many times he dies
He fights for the Dream
Not because he believes it will come true
But because he’s seen
What happens
When it doesn’t