They came . . .

First they kicked out the squatters,
I remained silent;
I had a home.

Then they busted the house shows,
I remained silent;
I don't listen to that type of music.

Then they approached the bars and bowling alleys,
I remained silent;
I don't own a small business.

Then they threatened the community spaces
small museums and resource centers.
I remained silent;
They didn't house any information that interested me.

Then they came for the art galleries
I remained silent;
I'm not an artist.

Then one evening, I left my home,
when outside, only a melancholy silence to keep me company.
Where had all the music gone?

Finally, I looked at the expanse of bland empty homogenized buildings.
Where was the color?
Where was the art?
Where was the proof that something was alive?

A parody of Pastor Martin Niemöller's poem, "First they came..."

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