In a deep, official voice, the announcer told the fans to exit the arena and promised, “You are all safe… We are all safe.” With that, the crowd emptied out; no more basketball.
By itself, isolated on this plywood,
among this puzzle of foregone possibilities,
his intact head seems to want affection.
Without knowing that I will do it,
I reach out and scratch his jaw,
and I stroke him behind his ears,
as if he might suddenly purr from his cooked head.
Here you are still doing the island’s housekeeping,
Scour and rinse out the mouth of a river
bind weeds and refuse clogged.
His day’s work done and his third beer drained, Cain finally feels like himself. Buzzed in the static of late August, when his friends go back to school. He always misses them more than he can say. He does not say much.
Since the very start of the Trump Presidency, American poets have rapidly mobilized in news-making numbers and noises to participate in protests across geographical and generational divides.