I don’t write many overtly political poems, but this one seems to sum up my hopes and fears for today.
It’s Friday. We pull out of the Paris climate accord
and I get my hair cut as Aretha bridges
troubled water. I could lay me down,
but I doubt that would accomplish anything.
Would anything accomplish anything?
Still, I’m uncomfortable doing nothing,
an equivocal activist, pretty sure
I can’t count on my teammates,
jumpy as a handful of BBs
dropped on stone.
I can see how restful it would be
to believe in the simple solution.
I tread the Earth, while the sun rises
and sets without comment
and the chickens, remorseless,
search out any protein around,
even if it’s the last Doloff cave spider
and dragonflies ricochet above us
the tattered sky
while I do what passes for the best I can.