We burn the pillows of the sick
as if it’s some sort of magic
against death, lie in our own beds
we’ve made holding our breath
hoping for light to return
as darkness blankets the earth
tossing and turning in dread
dreaming only of pandemonium.

I find it odd
that my old dog
growwwls
and lifts her ears
when she hears
a pine cone fall
somewhere out there
on my neighbor’s
forty acres
but pays no mind
to the dogwood’s
bark in the quiet
of the night
out in my front yard.

Remember when we burned
down the federal fences
and let a black family in
a white house built by slaves -

man, the fire was hot
and the smoke smelled like freedom -

but that was then, and here we are
not so much later, the rails are made
of iron like the fists of a dictator -

the smoke burns my eyes, man -
and now - I can’t breathe.

One might think
this is about

sweeping out the dusty corners
of my life

about letting go
of that pesky dream

of the bus I never seem
to catch

or the class I've been skipping
and failing

it's none of that
instead

it's a simple-minded
obsession

with cleaning agents
antisceptic soap bleach

strippers
floor wax and such

Whit Howland © 2020