a poem 6.7.20

Saline streaks
stain the cheeks
beneath eyes that have seen too much.
Again and again.
Incompetence reigns.
Arrogance feigns.
Not my job.
I can't breath,
whispered 400,000 sick ones,
whispered a handful of black ones.
Let loose from their confines,
struggling for voice,
the country erupts and divides,
burns and blames,
sheltering in their familiar foxholes,
heads down,
to avoid the salvo of fire from the other side.
The other, the not like me, the sick, the downtrodden,
the least of these,
lit on the pyre of the sacrificial disenfranchised.
Stand up, walk out.
Put your fucking boots on,
it's time to march.
But don't forget your mask.

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