Unplanned encounter
In a store parking lot,
She averts her eyes,
Changes direction,
Intentional shunning,
Everything she heard
Recited in her family
Reverberating inside,
Programming complete,
Total indoctrination,
Unquestioning allegiance,
Accepting lies as truth,
Poisoned.
They huddle together
In their towns,
Wary of outsiders,
Hanging on to a myth
About how things are
Supposed to be,
Devised by people
As scared as them.
He dismisses complex
Social problems
With casual disregard,
As if no actual human beings
Suffer—
The lack of insight
Common to someone
Who has never had to
Consider anyone but himself.
Carelessly proclaiming
No possible solution,
He guarantees its continuation.
So, anyway,
My car broke
Down in the
Middle of the road
And some people
Wearing outfits
Stopped by and
Killed me.
It was clear
He wouldn’t have
The courage to do
Anything but what
He had always done.
It took many years
Of memories and
Experiences to get
Here, none of which
He would let go of.
Things would remain
Much as they had
Always been,
Sad and stunted,
Unexamined.
Eventually coming around,
Kicking and screaming,
As they always do
When confronted with
Anything different.
Consistently on the
Wrong side of history,
They resist as long as
Possible, propping up
A crumbling dam.
Glazed-over eyes,
Brows tightly furrowed,
Obligatory last stands,
The stream flows
In spite of them.
It was the saddest thing to see
Her go. Consumed by rancor and
Antipathy, disfigured by forces she
Couldn’t resist, tempted by promises
Of power, control, safety, dominance,
A return to panacea, a premised land.
Writhing uncontrollably, harsh voice
Feigning certainty, hands clenched,
Eyes staring blindly, ferociously.
The fire of abandoned reason, inability
To acknowledge reality unretouched,
Capitulation to fear complete.
An affable man was asked whether
He was a writer. He replied emphatically
That he was most definitely not a writer but
More of a reporter. He walked away to
Continue chronicling the vicissitudes of life,
Seen through a lens of superficiality and
Constriction. He made only one exception:
When his words could help damage the
Vulnerable, otherwise, just casual
Accounts about nothing of consequence.
Musing wistfully about
An eroding golden era,
The stark contrast
Between the idyllic
Charm of the past and
A present gone awry.
It wasn’t always this way,
He explains sorrowfully,
There was a time when
People knew their station,
And everything was
More orderly.
An aging revisionist,
Hanging on to dreams
Of a place that never
Existed except in
His sheltered mind,
Unaware, subjective.
