but when the ambulance
gets insistent we shuffle
to the side like traffic
is a square dance. Tipped
hat, flipped heel. Most of
us flick our brights to be
legible: Members of the other
team ahead. We’ve made
machines that can understand
what we say and don’t hate
us yet. And the janitor smiles
at the worried child mincing
from the bathroom. I mean,
how many statues did we cast
in bronze knowing
the green skin the air
would leave. How many
of us hold the bus door open
the day after another mass
shooting. There’s a cabal
of fathers walking dogs
through the pre-dawn
blear, nodding without meaning
at each other. I’m not saying
the flood was a mistake.
I’m just breathing into a book
while this man seated against
a shopping cart tarped
with cardboard holds out
in his open hand a sandwich
butt to a reticent squirrel.