A Sunday after


It's the Sunday after,
The guns and automatic weapon chatter,
The scorn and anger,
The warmth of righteous indignation.

The air cond's cool,
I'm no fool,
Drifting in limbo,
Wondering what will become of myself.

I have miles to go before I weep,
And can't sleep even after counting sheep,
I want so much and work so widely,
I feel many things, and yet feel brittle.

A rhyme is easy, a poem trifle hard,
I guess I'll play my final card,
And let this one ebb slowly,
Like blood and coffee cups on a restaurant floor.

They've died in vain, in pain,
For us to live and grieve,
And maybe make something of what we have
Would they not have died thinking of something?

What would I do with just a phone, all alone,
In a historic hotel room?
What would I say, how many times apologize?
But I must not: I breathe, and must make it count.