Against the Day

It was a season of tribal hatreds, cancelled futures, broken symmetries and, like this one, much more–
a tall white cloud dumped buckets of fire and ice
onto a black umbrella
under which a tired, old man baked in the sun
like a star waiting to explode,

watching as neighbor assaulted neighbor with pitchforks,
pen knives, fire extinguishers,
whatever was at hand to replace
their Second Amendment Right to keep and bear arms.

Forklifts were lifted; dumpsters–burning with clocks, calendars,
and monitors of all the ages–then picked up
to be dumped, some even detonated
in living rooms and swimming pools of the rich.

Governors and Generals, Executives were lined up
in the underwear of their wives
against the walls they stood for
and waited for the same wrecking ball.

One after the other
until nothing was left but a tall white cloud, a black umbrella,
a tired, old man baking in the sun like a star.
Finally, with this yawn, ready to explode.