How lovely it would be to live in a nation where
poetry put down insurrections. Then I might close out
this stanza and go sue a wolf for stealing the moon.

A pastor from Dr. King’s pulpit defeated a white
supremacist; before I could relish the poetic justice, rioters
had begun to smear their own shit in the Capitol.

On his way to work, as the rioters munched the meal
they would later shit on Congress, Senator Hawley,
young and dreamy, raised a fist to them and they cheered.

If only they had known he was writing a book, they might
not have attempted their coup. Then the Senator wouldn’t
be suing his publisher, nor would I be plotting to assault

the neighbor who stole my Black Lives Matter sign
because they can’t keep getting away with it and
where there’s still no justice there can be no peace.