Whatever it is that the poet is being made to breathe at this moment, it is as sticky in the lungs as old fashioned hairspray, and causes a steeply elevated heart rate, and instant diarrhea.
So far tonight, not one but two projectiles have hit her van, thrown from passing vehicles.
*****
Recorded Reading (1:23): https://www.dropbox.com/scl/fi/yo15ywcvaaxrn42fslck2/Oh-We-re-Good.mp3?rlkey=amdt0bjq0twkuvub7tfs0rd5g&dl=0
*****
Oh, We’re Good
We can find a fingernail
Buried in the forest
Which sixteen years of heavy tread
Have stepped on before us
We can find a tiny fish
Underneath the ocean
Simply by its signature
Scientific motion
We can find nefarious
Truant refugees from schools
Where how to fight a terrorist
Is listed in the rules
We find working partiers
Out to have six hours’ fun
And you ~ if you make a mistake
Could be made by anyone
But we can’t find a man who does
His best to let us know he’s here:
Fumes loosed in the libraries,
Dead horses and deer,
Displaced shopping carts
In the thousands, poisoned milk ~
Forest fires and everything
A person of that ilk
Can possibly do to earn arrest,
Who hangs around the poet’s van
Within transceiver range all day
So he drive her crazy can,
Comes close enough every night
To launch projectiles at its side ~
We just can’t how to deal with him
Expertly decide
Excuse us for four more long years
While we pass it in review
You see, the problem, actually, is
We don’t really want to.
*****
This poet presently lives at a fraction of her nation’s poverty level.
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My Poetry 
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