After 11/6/16 and Oklahoma Drilling
Most survived the unexpected day of wind
and some mornings even felt half alive,
although the air was full of wasted words,
and the internet was mostly flushed crimson
with defeat. Rivers continued to flood,
and traffic ran on as if climate change
was just another lie the minority
would not admit to be a greater good.
But those of us who died, however right
or wrong, poured our fears into coffee mugs
and wrote our poems and told our little lives,
which were exploding daily into flight.
It was as if the precession was off
a fracking notch or two and something dark
quaked around the spent world. Of politics
we had had quite enough, though aftermath
would mean full stop and painful mopping up
of rhetoric that spewed over the shaken
platform’s splintered planks when the circus clowns
collapsed in glee behind the two-faced dope.
Slogans we had written turned out a noose:
hanging onto such loose lines wore us down.
Our lives would never run on track again:
the whole show was wrecked by its red caboose.
This is absolutely fantastic!
Yakoke for sharing your work Mr Barnes.