Sometimes, taking a break from the news and work,
I’ll spot the collected works of this or that poet
and, for a moment, have context for despair.
One might reasonably ask why any nonprofit, let alone a nonprofit lender, should dare to comment on politics. Isn’t that best left to pundits and politicians? In ordinary circumstances, I might agree—to a point. But these are not ordinary circumstances.
How lovely it would be to live in a nation where
poetry put down insurrections. Then I might bang out
this stanza and go sue a wolf for stealing the moon.
I try on a suit to look handsome for the moon
ask the mirror what I’ve gained and what I’ve lost.
I mourn the death of those yet to die,
seek an urn to hold the ashes of what might have been.
You would have to have your heads up your asses to expect us to take back power and not exact political revenge.
Here we reward the worst crimes with a cushy job
at a White Shoe law firm that does pro bono work
for the ACLU.
The only way to demonstrate your commitment to justice is to immediately sever all ties with Mr. Rosenstein, whose actions are diametrically opposed to the values you claim to espouse.
While the Enola Gay circled overhead, I gained weight,
and obsessed over coverage of its flight: Would we be spared,
or perish? What orders have been given, and who or
what will the pilot obey? We paid for the plane and…
We knew these would be hard years; at least we can laugh,
say I love you, watch for the flags at half-staff.
After four years, it has come to this:
I fear that all I love will go to ruins,
and my little son is playing on the dunes.