The Antiwar Monger

He sweeps a skirt of up-turned faces
With him across the country
From campus to campus,
          street to street,
       fountain to fountain,
              jail to jail,
Singing Woodstocks along the way.

That audience attends his face
As much as his sincerity,
His gestures as much as his commitment.
A personal season of applause blooms and
Disintegrates around him occasionally
Like the countable clappings of
Prominent ladies at an afternoon tea,
To endorse him all the more gently
With the comfort of heed.

If Vietnam had not become
The antonym of hair,
He would have been merely
A distinguished teacher of peace.

But here is more than peace.
Here is the antiwar.