Poetry

Summer Bummer, 6 (158.)

Lights on through a window at night
make the glass a window,
when sometimes,
it’s unclear and almost opaque
like a mirror smudged to hell and back.
Soot takes a firm hold in the chimney of the soul
and a good cleansing requires
the finest knack.
It’s interesting to imagine
slouched forms huddled in chairs or sofas,
staring at a screen or two,
maybe wondering when the world will get better.
Some things can’t be healed so fast,
and they take work.
Petitions, protests, information sharing,
it’s all important
and it’s all
necessary at all times.
Can’t stop.
Won’t stop.
If people gotta sit,
we may as well sit
with thumbs poised over
“Share” and “Like” and “Donate”
and “Sign” and “Take this fucked up dude to task”
buttons.
The best ones.
That way, when someone turns the lights on,
the view from outside the window
shows that good work happened here.

(Take that last part back.
It’s not about being seen or recognized.
Help without calling attention to yourself.
Don’t connect the second half of this thing
to the first half of this thing
with a cheap window metaphor.
Houses aren’t glass,
and the best people
do what’s best for everyone
when no one is watching.)

Internal struggle.
Damnation.
Climb up from existential oblivion
and extend thy hand downward.

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