The Poet Tries Not to Become a Rooster

The Poet Tries Not to Become a Rooster

I sit at the kitchen table with a yellow legal pad
and coffee that's given up pretending to be warm,
trying to write something
that isn't just another raised middle finger
at the screen, at the headlines, at the faces
that keep getting elected to ruin everything twice.

The urge is clean and stupid:
Fuck you to the man with the spray-tan hair,
Fuck you to the bare-chested one with the nuclear smile,
Fuck you to every steeple and every sermon
that still thinks love needs a fence
and a list of who's allowed inside.

The throat loves the work.
The throat was built for it,
raw, loud, red as a fresh bruise.

But the poem wants something quieter,
something that doesn't end up looking
like a barnyard animal having a stroke,
wings flapping, beak open, red comb flopping
like a drunk's tie at last call.

I want to hate the hate
without letting the hate move into my spare room,
without giving it a key,
without letting it use my toothbrush
and leave its wet towels on my good chair.

I want to stay human long enough
to notice the small terrible things:
the way a man's voice cracks when he says
"those people" like he's spitting out a pit,
the way a woman's hand trembles
when she crosses herself before voting
for the next crucifixion.

So I sit here, pen in hand,
not quite a rooster, not quite a saint,
just a man trying to keep the poison
from seeping all the way in
while still having enough venom left
to spit something true.

It's a narrow ledge.
Most days I slip.
Most days the poem
comes out looking
a little too much like blood.