Gwendolyn Brooks — Medgar Evers

The man whose height his fear improved he arranged to fear no further. The raw intoxicated time was time for better birth or a final death Old styles, old tempos, all the engagement of the day — the sedate, the regulated fray — the antique light, the Moral rose, old gusts, tight whistlings from the past, the mothballs in the Love at last our man forswore Medgar Evers annoyed confetti and assorted brands of businessmen's eyes The shows came down: to maxims and surprise And palsy Roaring no rapt arise-ye to the dead, he leaned across tomorrow. People said that he was holding clean globes in his hands