—for the truckers and their families
“Then I looked, and the seven angels that stand in the presence of God were given seven trumpets.” —Revelation 8:2, New Testament
The capital reverberates with air horns—
the trumpets of New Jerusalem rolling
into town on sixteen-wheeled chariots.
The Carnival of the Free has come
with ball hockey and bouncy castles
to shake loose the gnawing frost
paralyzing a nation’s soul.
Reapers of truth draped in flags,
doing the one-foot, two-foot dance
of minus-22. And they will separate
the wicked from the good by their song.
What demons could hear the horns
of the Seven Angels as shrieking
insurrection? What parliamentary
gargoyles grind limestone teeth
to hear this choir sublime? “All we ask,”
said the convoy organizers, “is that
the prime minister sit down and talk to us.”
But Hell’s minions do not discuss.
They send blinded horses to run down
old women and pepper spray reporters
in the face—forgetting, Judgment Day
has a long, long memory for pain.
To merely obey orders is no defense.
Who obeys the Ode to Joy has no fear,
for the Kingdom is already within them.
Winter clouds boil black over halls of power,
Parliament Hill so empty it echoes
the prime minister’s footsteps—utterly
alone, marked like Cain for the bile
and brimstone of history’s torment.
Our bridge home a superstructure
of truck trailers spanning the horizon
from sea to sleepwalking sea.
©2022 Sean Arthur Joyce
 Matthew 13:49, New Testament