My hand rested there, where the missing button
Announced itself and dared me to imagine
Where it finally came to rest.
Rough wool, clasping catches,
Soft to the touch.
Threadbare textures circumscribe
A coat that has seen other winters, other hands.
But for now and for all winters to come,
Pad Thai and a Lousy Connection
Your destination is distance.
Kilometres click, pile up, crumble
At the tolling of the telephone.
A voice snipped by turbulent static,
Syllables click, pile up, crumble.
A finger presses where lips and tongue cannot.
A soft dull wrenching when silence finally arrives.
Only fervent nourishings
Continue to stare, blindly.
And I, sleepless, scribbling.
The acrid haze of tear gas chokes
The sparking flash bang flinch.
Panic, glued to broken transmissions
Of kettled children, smiling, eyes shining with
Sweat sliding down the business end
Of a baton.
While the white bloc blocks the black bloc,
While the talk table sits abandoned
While the summer crowds,
Our Dear Leader wrings his hands.
Despair or triumph,
We will see.