Under the rain, a motorcycle waits
Sheltered at an underpass, a beat late
To choose a different Sunday on the road.
It’s no use faltering over the code
Of rules I could’ve kept, in yesterday,
when the rain smacks the windshield of today.
Syria, frightened sister. A poet-
hawk does little but pray for guns to own it
hears when Doctors Without Borders swear
chemical weapons tore people’s nerves–dare
tell me poems are not to wring the black cloth
of politics, to shrug reports of froth’d
mouths of children, thousands dead–it’s just too
far away to act. And, yes, we may cue
repercussions, and squint in the pouring
rain of what it is to fall to Glory
in the Highest supplication. I turn
to try to unsay/undo the past, earn
the peace that biker must have, stopped at just
the right time, in a blind rain, since he must.