I am a raft on the ocean with undocumented eyesight
And I feel the Gulf Stream
High on that kind of mid-morning sunlight,
the kind of light that sells a lie.

And you feel “alright”.

Okay, so,
We made coffee on the hotplate
We ate ramen in the hallway
We identified the exits (just in case).

I know you don't do this most days,
And you're falling for the ‘wrong kind’,
But does it feel all right?
Do I remind you of your dad?

When you were born your father wondered what kind of drunk you would be

We have spoken up and savaged
I'm an [Object]
You're a [Measuring Tool],
an [Instrument For Shaking Down a Government in Turmoil].
I have left my body.
You are breaking someone's bread for “Progress”.

I am a [Raft On the Ocean]
You are an [Animal Skin Rug]
I don't expect you to embrace this
(and we're both drunk).
If not tonight, maybe next year I'll aspire to something better –
maybe a butcher or a driver –
and I will fill my lungs with you.

When you were born your mother
(glittering, mad to see, neurologically lost),
wondered what kind of Senator you would be.

We won't speak up
Our language fails to find a hold
Sincerity slides, as advertised
our brothers joined their fathers…sung for banks
And this is not our protest
This is just the end of Progress.

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