by Lynda Gene Rymond
Last night under my window
I heard a coyote clack its teeth.
Today’s skies grow dark, darker.
Clouds purr at first
but then it’s full-throated growls
breaking to thunderclaps
to shake the house
while in the city of angels
men on horseback stalk
like corrupted knights
to intimidate children.
Tactical vehicles prowl.
A small black woman,
Madam Mayor, confronts,
her fury rising like heatwaves.
Be furious. Be thunder.
Shake their houses.
Steal their horses, count coup,
paint their dishonor.
Find a mightier pen to wield.
Tell tales that crack walls.
Sing, sing all the way to morning.
Lynda Gene Rymond lives and works on Goblin Farm in Applebachsville, Pa. She is a winner of the Pennwriters Short Story Prize and a multi-year finalist for Bucks County Poet Laureate. Her latest publication, Spellbook, has just been published by Moonstone Arts.
