Ours is the time of fidget spinners,
a-whizz and glittering on palms and fingertips,
of Russian hacking, of polar bears patched with brown
merging into grizzlies in a supple move to stay relevant and alive,
as ice caps crack and ages melt,
heaving cascades iridescent in the sun,
surging past whirlpools of trash and lost manatees.
It is the time of construed tans from plug-in suns,
of super villains in gilt towers, of men as jerky as marionettes
attacking one another in the subway, their curses vile and ancient,
Of quiet folks in the next car, bobbing along,
making room for each other.
It is the time of ancestors in red satin jackets helping me to
parry and thrust, of balance beams and forgetfulness.
It is the time of trees that bloom and sway even as facts are
trampled and the May wind blows cold.
