by Diana Morley
Must cut says the prez-elect
in one of his cozy countless buildings
slipping in partners in crime
all the slime that’s fit to fill the void
the bigger the fire the better, he says,
to raise foes’ arm hair along with their hackles
to bring the thrill of campfire tales
all love to chill by, hoping they’re not real.
The public mass, like plants and wildlife,
work daily, yearly, season by season
knowing dawn’s the time to rise
for the sun to warm, to turn us all toward others—
by nightfall there’s still the rent to pay
and a plugged-in quilt at bedtime
a kitchen cold as an unplayed banjo.
Diana Morley publishes poetry online and in journals. She published Spreading Like Water (2019), a chapbook; Splashing (2020), a poetry collection; and Oregon’s Almeda Fire: From loss to renewal (2021), a documentary of photos and poems.
