I’m at the climate march,
in a League of Conservation Voters T-shirt,
holding a sign
someone needed to disperse,
in multiple copies
(there’s always a stack).
Mine says — “Rise, Build, Resist and Vote.”
I agree, but I look around
for something clever to stand beside.
Words matter, but I was traveling,
awake for twenty-four hours,
and I can’t be brief
without a good night’s sleep.
Long-winded poetry is the fruit of insomnia
(probably a pomegranate).
I like “There is no Planet B,” also
“Wade in the water, children,
Trump’s going to trouble the water
… and God is not pleased.”
There is “Mni Wiconi — water is life”
next to “We can’t drink oil”
and “Climate change is a hoax is a hoax,”
and several rude but true things
about the president’s veracity and IQ,
but I settle in next to a young woman
with a cardboard placard that says,
“Things are so bad –
even the introverts are here.”
We are here – singing old songs,
in our wheelchairs, strollers, sneakers,
one pair of Jimmy Choos (really) —
all of us, connected,
afraid and full of courage,
with our popcorn phrases
and pomegranatic poems broken open,
seedy with wet red hopes.