Before this, I was a cloud on good authority.
I didn’t have the heart to settle for anything less
than full iceberg against low hung sky.
She shatters the fence post from fist
to eye and back again.
The man who operates the chipper ride:
No need to keep your hands inside at all times.
A prayer for more blind, less vision in the time
it takes for an hour to pass.
The better part of an afternoon humming room.
The only way she’ll make it to the swearing in
is with a bag of pardons and a couple
right-leaning justices in the backside pocket.
A froth of black robes spilling to the floor.
Arabica beans on the outfield, low roasted.
The earthy simmer of plant and propane.
The fire department called in for recess.
The train conductor pauses at my row and smiles.
His punch card full, and his hands
the universal symbol for dancing.
This poem previously appeared in snapdragon, March 2020.