A confluence of badness hit Louisville this summer with the common theme of more. More heroin, made all the worse by a resurgence of HIV and hotshots laden with deadly fentanyl. More homicides, driven by heroin and rising gang warfare, now acknowledged publicly by city officials. More unusually wet and hot weather, perhaps caused by climate change (we are not scientists, but...). More heartache, with the death of Muhammad Ali, our hometown hero nonparallel, and friends from heroin. And more hate, stock in trade of a new, activist governor whose Twitter and selfie addictions are eclipsed only by his arrogance and tone-deaf politics. And then we had a sucky backyard-growing summer, producing a harvest of angry tomatoes.
2016, you blazing summer of death
summer of bullets, season of smack
your burning months of murder and hate
you’ve taken so many that we want back
Most famed of these, Louisville’s son
the man Ali both free and wild
not the least of those to whose
loss we must be reconciled
Rising from the clay to be the best
disciple of X, man of God
boxer and driven activist
he took the name of the prophet, Muhammad
Hero and outlaw, he refused to fight
a war he found to be obscene
losing what he’d won by doing right
standing against the war machine
Banned for years, he rose again
taking up the champion’s crown
but each career must have an end
and Parkinson’s would bring him down
Louisville, he was your King
a man and flawed, like everyone
but he fought his life in a larger ring
be proud, that you had such a mighty son.
