by Tammy Smith
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| Art by Clay Jones |
One of the slyest tricks
the mind’s eye knows:
to seal itself shut.
Save face.
Mask up.
Some say good can come
from a shutdown.
Maybe true for the sleep-deprived,
near collapse, knees buckling—
but for the rest of us, harder
to measure the loss:
empty offices, national parks,
stalled paychecks,
parties brawling over healthcare
without fanfare,
without conscience,
in crowded waiting rooms,
filling out the same damn forms.
Blank spaces, blank stares.
A shutdown is an ill-timed rest—
every blink, another verdict
against the people forced to sleep
without the aid
of their American dream.
Tammy Smith is a New Jersey–based poet and licensed clinical social worker. Her poems have been published in ONE ART, The New Verse News, Grand Little Things, Merion West, Eunoia Review, and elsewhere.