day EIGHTY ONE

PostTrump Pantoum - 1:20 AM

 

 

 

Max Roach is crawling my vertebrae

in time to the low gong

of a brass chime

outside in hurricane wind

 

In time to the low gong

palpable      impenetrable

inside like hurricane wind

... an impossible tap on the shoulder

 

Palpable implausible

No one else is awake

but the tap on the shoulder

   I spin & look away

 

I'm the only one up

after this disaster

I spin the dial anyway

but the news doesn't change

 

After a disastrous election

no one un-dies

and the news stays the same

Some wounds huddle in close

 

and no one un-dies

(a toll from a brass gong)

Huddled wounds will not heal

And still Max Roach crawls my spine

 

--Matthew Hupert