Last night it rained Biblical torrents,
and the trees dropped all their leaves at once.
Today, red and orange leaves, like little hands,
lie all over the sidewalks in mounds. Their cellulose skin
so much like ours but without meat or bones.
Meanwhile the neighbors are out in force,
raking and binning the storm’s detritus.
It’s what we humans do, after a tempest;
we clean up what’s left, while dogs prance
through swept piles, and the general
mayhem we call living spangles the air.
This almost-past year was a long skid, no brakes,
on the kind of ICE that hardens around the heart
of a nation. There are neighbors who aren’t here
but should be, and so much has been destroyed
that can never be put right again, at least not
in this brief lifetime. Where’s the bottom and how
will we know when we’ve reached it
is the question not even the black-clad astrologer
can answer, but I do know my friends are down
at Home Despot as I speak, clanging pots and pans
and fighting the kidnappers who come for the men
who only want work, and others
blocked the intersections around ICE offices
in San Francisco just last week and got arrested.
I’m braced–we all are–for whatever comes next,
for the wheels to come completely off the bus.
Meanwhile we’re between storms and the air is soft,
the neighbors have an improbable inflated Santa still
presiding over their yard, plastic reindeer flapping in the wind,
and fake snow, with a big ¡Feliz Navidad!
¡Próspero Año Nuevo! in green and red glitter on their window.
***
* Originally published in the online journal OneArt.
This post has been syndicated from Robert Reich, where it was published under this address.