Politic
Faced with being nailed to a cross, sure, you’ll bring
the money tomorrow— I’m in the wrong, you’ll say,
I’m not even listening, will come the reply but
you’re not listening, instead fixated on the sound
of a hammering future. Is love inconstant?
Kill him with his own gun. Is joy inconceivable?
Hang all hope from the scaffold. What kind of
opinion does the sun have, or a mutt, or some small
gathering of birds on a wire. You will pay your debt
with a chainsaw if you can get away with it.
You will keep your blade sharp. Pointless arguments
drift off, serene clouds of unreachable compromise,
as the grind of human supplication and mercilessness
sustains this unremitting tremble in the poisoned air.
*
Michael Dwayne Smith has work haunting many literary houses, including The Cortland Review, New World Writing, Third Wednesday, Heron Tree, Heavy Feather Review, and Chiron Review; he’s been nominated multiple times for the Pushcart and Best of the Net. A Professor Emeritus in Education and Educational Technology, he lives near a Mojave Desert ghost town with his family and rescued horses.
