Public Republic

Matt Urmy

Photo: Shereen M

Yesterday morning I ate cold grits images
of my son lying in a hospital bed leg covered in bandages and burns

Today on the drive to work my stomach growled as I imagined
him there unconscious in that room innocent and maimed

At lunch I made a heavy soup seasoned with online-news pictures
Refugee tents in Africa Blooded children of Palestine

In the evening I sucked the relief of colored leaves and light wind
sipped the tea of after-rain mist and hummed to myself while I strolled to the car

Weakly tried for tears all the way through the rush hour traffic
while the news-voice droned on and on, “more economic…children dead…”

At night I gulped the pizza of solitude laughed as my record player leaked wine across
the floor then crawled to the speakers and licked it up like a dog

drunk in the dark I forgot the day’s trappings and
drifted into the pond-song of a dream

until the hunger pains of morning’s blazing alarm
hexed me back toward the pantry of the world’s coal dust kitchen