skeletons on the federal steps

It's the day of the dead, and a big demonstration, spearheaded by my long time partner, is in progress in the county seat as I type. Last night I helped him put together a dancing, lifesize skeleton made of cardboard and wire; kind of a charming creature, with its gleaming crooked smile.
Do you suppose there will be police there? he asked. Naive man.
I said, be prepared for a major police presence--you have called, after all, for the toppling of the current regime, and you have said you will be going to the representative's office. They are not going to like that.
Critical Mass bikers are enroute there.
Word comes that the protestors on the steps have been surrounded by Federal Marshals,Sheriffs, and the Highway Patrol.
I may not see my friend back here tonight. I sigh and turn on the local radio station--our friend the news reporter is in place with her tape recorder at the protest, and she'll let me know if anything big happens.
Fifteen years ago she was the one who called from the logging protest: don't worry, but Paul is chained beneath the truck now, and the cops are talking with him. He seems in good spirits.
Life in a political household can be interesting indeed.
The year our daughter, now 20, was born, he did a trespass action at a close by naval sub station--on August 6. The trial dragged on till our daughter was 4, and he finally got off with community service. Our little girl learned to walk in a courtroom, holding to the fancy box sides.