day SEVEN HUNDRED and FORTY

Drones

I can’t remember

if it’s Mangini or Pajich

whose dystopian nightmare

is a sky full of drones

doing away with work

blocking the sun

and beating out

the sound of clouds

in miniature, I understand

as I stand at the grave

of now hundred-year dead

union organizer

after twenty minutes

trying to match angels

to photographs

I locate to the grave

there is this sound

like an oil tanker

draining shots of drano

through an industrial fan

I look up, stare at a drone

staring at me and can’t figure

is this is the nsa, cia or fbi

or some derelict wondering

what I’m doing so close

to his or her property line

I wonder if this is going on my permanent

record with the recordings

my phone, and others phone

really, all I want is a minor reverence

here in the snow, with the sun blazing

in a way unaccustomed to January

I take a picture

now accessible

to whatever government

or tech giant wants them

then I want to sit

quietly, reflect on giving

ones life for a just

and equal system

for all

the drone is still hovering

I make eye contact again

twin propellers roar

I can’t find a rock

in the snow, in the grass

I deal out one middle finger

a small salute

until the drone satisfied

flies away

I get my moment

alone instead

to reflect on what freedom

means, once again

--Jason Baldinger