Friday, November 6, 2020

In between dreams, a flare, a whisper

of sound ––– the voice from beyond

that strikes like a match. Sweltering city,

the heat of November, with glass facades

covered by boards, wood left without paint,

braced for bricks, braced for battle, braced

for cries of fraud, braced for fears of change.

This must have been more than four years:

making America great again was a bust again.

Though something has to happen now.

The curtains closing, the light coming back on

and the audience, who are one with the actors,

should be getting up from their seats and drifting

toward the exit by now. Almost seventy million

demanding, begging, waving their flags ––––

needing an encore. Almost seventy-five million

with quiet tears of reflection, stepping out

into the streets at dusk, having an evening

or two, or three months, to rejoice.

Then emboldened, wiser, and having seen

and having felt –––––– and wanting to heal

these quintessential American wounds; rising

the next morning: and going back, to work.