I pour myself orange juice, maximum pulp.
I say the hell with my diet, slather cream cheese on my bagel.
The newspaper seems to be thinking my thoughts:
No hope for old men, just young people everywhere.
Is the life we lead in public real? What I’ve offered
my daughter is a version I made up.
She must worry about trusting a father who knows everything.
My daughter has always believed in my earnestness.
Must I tell her that her white privilege will be taken away?
She never did like to go to sleep;
every night she had to be talked into it all over again.
Her mother sang softly coaxing her. The murmur
of their voices was the the most comforting sound I ever heard.
America is living on borrowed time. We have two different
Americas playing games with different rules.
The events on January 6th offered no hope that I could recognize.
The aliens attacking the Capital were an apocalypse of hate.
Here, the pansies are blooming, my daughter
has pictures of Sesame Street by her bed.
Faith and love should be her inheritance. But, there
is another headline of a missing teenage girl.
I imagine another day full of duties, fears, and small complaints.
This newspaper will become kindling for our next fire,
I will have little time to think about it,
crazy absurdities fly into my mind;
I’m already late for work…