Been thinking about my own anger and outrage at the current political situation and, also, seeing more clearly how outrage and anger are situational, that my sense of prior peace was, in many ways, bought at the price of ignorance, or, better yet — ignore-ance.
Some memories trace an oval
Some memories trace an oval,
a parabola that returns
to where it started –
like that exercise in geometry class
where you slice a cone
with one mighty whack then
trace its edge with your pencil
until your arrival
at the end of the line finds you
at the beginning again.
Back in ‘68, on the sidewalk next door,
old man Korter clutched his broom,
swept his walk in the summer dusk.
Cicadas sang from the treetops.
Through my bedroom window,
I listened to the summer settle in.
Murders, then riots.
I did not know
the desperation of those years.
Each stroke
cleared clipped grass
from the chipped concrete,
his fingers wrapped tightly
around the handle. A man
dead on a balcony in Memphis.
Sixty-miles to the east,
Chicago burned.
The walkway clean. A
screen door slapped shut.
– Steve Peterson
