One day, watching what we used to call tv,
it occurred that seismic things were happening
beyond the pale of studios and screens;
a president had planned to say farewell and
simultaneously, a soon-to-be crashed in for rating’s sake
and what would now be spun as the politics of wee.
Sunday, wrestling the 3rd or 4th commandment,
a group of strangers gathered in a passing
bid to instigate the arbiter of fortune;
how and when, to whom, in what respect
to say we’re more than out of sorts, if seemingly in shape
like panthers pacing in a cage refusing to slow down.
Someday, winnowing the come-what-may
from versions of the things we prayed today,
there will be comfort in the liniments of legacy;
his and hers and yours and mine combine
in ways we’ll strain to listen to, yet never fully orchestrate
’til heaven help the harmony of every humbled
voice.
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