PHOENIX POEM
I feel a long poem coming on,
Might need three-shot mochas to get through it.
Not right: I’m cozy in a coffee shop, bright and chattery
While our bombs
Drop on Iran against our will. We’re powerless against
The billionaires playing games with lives and money
And the water we drink
And the air we breathe,
As thousands like me run out our pens writing words like these.
Trains flow by on Lake Street. Long flat freightcars
Over an elevated bridge
Slightly above my line of sight. There is talk of sun…
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