New poem up at Winedrunk Sidewalk: Shipwrecked in Trumpland

The next phase 

I sit back and watch as the unreal becomes real

horrors become usual

and outrage begins to fade.


Responsibility is not a negative,

a dirty word

to be avoided.


I am both here and not here.


Grief makes it more real

and less,

I don’t know

what comes next.


The moon was full last night

as we stepped out into the cold


this will be our last

time seeing the moon

over this particular field and hills.


I mourn it

but I am ready

to move to the

next phase.


Reuse could be the battle cry

for this generation

and the next


I am confident

that overall we are

getting smarter,


we must be

I tell myself

as I watch two boys

at preschool chase each other

around with a plastic saw.

The teacher calls after them,

“it’s not a weapon,

it’s for building things.”


They continue on in their game.


It stops raining finally

after 11 days of non-stop

water dropping from the sky


and for a moment

everyone’s mood is lightened.


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