As I sit on this bench
at my poetry pond,
breezes cool my armpits
after my walk from home.
I muse upon the freedom of breezes,
their carefree saunters across borders,
how they flaunt and jeer at the goons of
ICE.
Sitting here, on this final Easter
when anyone can pretend
that America is free,
in a year where billionaires
destroy all democracy,
I envy this breeze,
this storied West Wind,
that will only grow in strength
as the planet heats,
billionaires ruin the Earth,
and humanity follows democracy to death.
