What a fine day for schadenfreude, my dear!
I’ve no intent to offer thoughts or prayers:
for we heathens, we lovers of Earth fear
no god—aspire not to sainthood. May
we live long in love, and the nation heal;
If the wicked suffer, let’s let them be.
They have no conscience—I will not appeal
for kindness, nor give an ounce of mine. We
have a future to fight for! They won’t steal
another thought. Instead, I think of you,
of post-pandemic strolls, how it will feel
to be relieved of this hate. O, we knew
these would be awful years; at least we laugh,
say I love you, watch for flags at half-staff.