Sullen Art
“Someone will write a poem called Charlottesville,
describing the car and the woman it killed,
and someone else will be moved to consider
the separate pain of the driver’s mother;
the statue of Robert E. Lee won’t gallop out
of history, stone flag waving, without
someone trying to find the words that might
counter all this insanity and hate—
and none of it will matter to the soldiers
of the army of gun-toting sumbitches, shoulder
to white shoulder, self-appointed avatars of the human,
stomping out the neighborhood’s vermin.”
He looks at me and finishes his beer.
“Still,” he says. “I’ve written something. Here.”
