Find joy in the little things:
the glint of rust on flagpoles at dawn,
or squeak of shoes on desecrated marble.
Imperfections I’d given up on.
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.
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.
“Freedom is not a state; it is an act. It is not some enchanted garden perched high on a distant plateau where we can finally sit down and rest. Freedom is the continuous action we all must take, and each generation must do its part to create an even more fair, more just society.” – John Lewis
At last I’m free to visit Church today;
What State dare silence this ecstatic hymn?
Hallelujah, O Lord, how oft we pray
to be free—and now we’re free! Yet we brim
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.
We knew these would be hard years; at least we can laugh,
say I love you, watch for the flags at half-staff.