June, 2026

This is not
a good year.
But it has
witnesses.

When you see them protest the powerful,
since who else does,
they stand
like flagpoles outside the courthouse
after a northeaster.

They came with
the wrong shoes
for revolution.
Still,
they showed up.

Comfort, Lord,
their bodies—
each a question mark
doing time
as a coat rack,
hung with borrowed jackets.

They are your legion
of bent spoons.
They are the only ones
who showed up—
with their orthopedic flair.

I saw my people lean—
not toward hope but toward each other.
They chant off-rhythm
and mean it.

These are my kind of people:
no tears—just
steam from a kettle
that never quite boils.

In times like these, don’t forget us:
the lopsided
leaning on one another.

Poems come sometimes
like a dog in my bed
pressing its cold brown nose
against my cheek– insisting, insisting-
wake up!

Sometimes like a cat
yowling under the couch 
until down on hands and knees
I scramble in the dust and dirt
and pull.

Then there are the ones
still as a pregnant hare
waiting for the 
winged shadow
to pass.