by Julia Griffin
But for the young, I might not care too much.
I’ll go on reading in my little hutch
And typing quirky poems, as before;
I don’t in fact expect a civil war:
This outcome leaves small danger of a putsch.
Books, dogs, Prosecco—I intend to clutch
My pleasures, drifting further out of touch.
I’d be content just to enjoy them more
But for the young.
Here’s four more years of vicious double dutch,
The crumbling earth denied a vital crutch,
More guns, bent laws, less safety for the poor,
Billionaires’ bribes—all this I might ignore;
It’s not for me my misery is such,
But for the young.
Julia Griffin lives in south-east Georgia. She did what she could.
