by James Horner
I rediscover
my power to decide
which words matter,
which words don’t,
and whose.
Striding, not stomping,
I let fall my anger
through frozen streets tromping.
What will this day augur?
At ten I limp home
feet about to bleed
from protest marching.
Try to slip by Mom
who heard the racket
she didn’t expect.
The Capitol Dome
where the Proud Boys kneed
cops. Pence’s lynching–
failed. A tiny qualm
tucked in my jacket.
We tried to reject
the votes. Pepper spray
stung and blinded me.
No stones thrown, just moans
from police. My broken
skin. Betrayed by Trump.
Played for a chump.
Zoomed in on Mom’s TV,
my grimacing grin.