In the Weeds
Our drinks are full of rain on the day they put
the woman down. It's simply the way of this town.
The last bird was spotted years ago, wing-shot
by the boy from the alley. The flaming oriole
sputtered to the ground, lost in the sawgrass
but still spoken of reverentially. She had the nerve
to call out angels and politicians. She took her rights
seriously, and there's the tragedy. Here we say,
Not my country. But what do we mean by it.
Where on the map did the final break occur. Look
at each street name, burn it to the backs of your
eyes. Someday the smug will say where this
and where that and confusion will be no more
tolerated than the blood dripping from your wounds.
This really is a wonderful place so long as you ignore
everything they say. The liquor is what helps.
I've been drunk in the weeds for years and look
how happy I am.