& the cats purr over their kibbles while

three finches in olive drab cling to a feeder

tilting crazily in the wind.

After the steady drip, drip, drip of slogans,

the shouted argumentum ad hominem

ad nauseum, we take the sign down, stow it

in the basement with

everything else we keep meaning to deal with.

Neighbors hoist new banners proclaiming

that anger never falters. Plus ça change, plus

c’est la même chose.

Still the wind has shifted since all the guitars

chanted we shall overcome. I’m craving

the nostos of the back catalog, some

new old rhythm

to shake loose this dread. I’d settle for

Dylan on vinyl in some pine-paneled

basement, back when our hangovers

were not political.

But morning after angels, cynical and sleek,

slouch in doorways, marking every lintel

with spit as we flip through the choices

left us—each crass

callous, coarse—a quest for some fool thing

we thought was more important than this,

our one frail life. Death will ring us up again—

matter of fact, insistent.

We’ll want to hang up, but we can’t. We’ve

cast our ballots. What’s done is done.

Influencers assure us we still have time,

can still save big, the climate’s

not so bad, every headline has its silver

bullet lining.