Washington

Washington

Exhaust heavier than oxygen settled in my lungs.
I hopped the turnstile in DC and see now The Pool
tinged crimson and hear stirring of soldiers’ ghosts
p.a.c.i.n.g.
Streets and greenways of the nation’s crapitol.
It takes a sea of women, frothy, in hot pink tea shirts
to have any kind of voice. My womb stirs,
but all of these songs, shouts, screams, and whispers
Travel nowhere.
Even with bullhorns and amplifiers.
The President never removes his earplugs.
Folksingers and war criminals alike demand
((or beg politely for)) god-given rights.
We seem not to have learned from history.
The meek inherit nothing.