Over the years I’ve moved so many times that the loss of a few files was inevitable. I’ve also had enough computer crashes to have dropped a poem here and there along the way. Thus, when I happened to run into the person who inspired this poem, it came as no big surprise that I couldn’t find it. I tried to reconstruct it from memory — and then, lo and behold, I located a copy of my chapbook, in which this poem permanently resides. I actually did remember most of it accurately.
My stylishly booted friend
changes into sneakers
for the abortion rights rally
The phrase rolls easily off her tongue
evoking images of gray-hooded peasants,
an army of revolutionary clones.
I assure her that stacked heels
and pure silk blouses
have nothing to do
In the morning
the man who supports her
discusses his plans for the day:
replacing a Vice President in Tokyo
meeting a prospect for a Madrid corporation
making final payment on his new Mercedes Benz.
is telling me something
about the need for funding the arts
but my ears jam
with the cries of an African baby
dying under the crunch
of a well-heeled