Speaking out.

November 26, 2009
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I listen.
Stranger’s beers are replaced by microphones, whose slurred speech sounds out endlessly the tired pangs of ignorance.

I shudder.
Then shake.
Then panic.

The congressman calls my number, and I clutch my dad’s hand tight.

“Switch with me,” I say. “This is what you wanted.”

“No,” he says, and I let go,
Letting my thoughts gather with the slow patter
of my feet on the linoleum floor.

Who would listen to me?
I’m just a girl,
my jeans to tight,
my hair too wild,
my makeup an obvious rebellion to American democracy.

I take the microphone from the man’s clenched hand.
Someday they’ll understand.

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