April 18

A Apolitical Sonnet

You trace a dirty finger through the frost
on someone's windshield, sign your name in blank
space. Then you cross it out. The air is ghost-
thin, sharp as vinegar. You want to sink
a Caribbean cruise ship, or incite
mob violence at Six Flags Over Georgia.
At least, you want to want these things. The rate
at which these urges fade into the mortar
of reality depresses you a little,
but so do many things, like answering
machines and airports. Snowflakes start to settle
in colonies along your sleeves. A song
is vaguely audible within the bar,
ancestral hippies criticizing war.