Poetry

Spooktown, 2 (276.)

Today I told a dude at work
“I’m crossing my fingers that things get better soon,”
and it probably sounded like I said
“I can’t wait for things to go back to normal,”
but it wasn’t until later that I realized
I don’t mean that in the slightest.
I don’t want things to go back to whatever normal was,
not when normal is
contempt for the poor and downtrodden,
and glory for the so-called movers and shakers,
heavy air quotes around those assholes,
some fluffed-up tech billionaires (and fuck millionaires too)
who only know how to overwork their employees
and pocket disgusting profits,
I want normal to be a gathering of prophets,
kids in ripped jeans who talk about communism
without deferring to free market bullshit,
I prefer folks who deter capital
in all its forms,
so even though it sounded like I said
“Let’s go back,”
what I thought and felt inside was
“I can’t wait to look my friends full in the face,
and hug them indiscriminately,
and high five and shake hands and bump fists
and hug them
and hug them
and hug them,
please God, if you’re there,
let us hug again.”
Thank you.

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