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The pundits kept talking “moderate”

And “suburban Republican women”

And I just wanted to scream.

There has never been a poet with a moderate dream.

Here, moderate does not exist.

The seasons take or give.

The airy cliffs frighten, or inspire;

The attractive view only in this light can live.

The rhyme scheme is either smooth or dire.

There is water, or graves.

There are melting ruins, or carefully hidden staves.

The least is not protected.

The old lives on, respected.

Or, sudden death

Mocks the intaken breath.

We don’t know what, from one minute to the next,

Will lie about, yawning; or jump up, and perplex.

There is no middle ground.

Either the poem is boring

Or it has a beautiful sound.

It is either: “I hate them, I hate them,

And because you hate them, I love you,”

Or: “I’m very sorry, I hate you, too.”

In America, how can the woman who is pro-life,

Love the abortionist?

The abortionist may love his wife,

The tallest mountain may be covered in mist,

But the moderate does not exist

In American politics.

The proud pro-choice block will not abide

Mothers not choosing; judgement looking at them and looking inside.

A “moderate” smoker. Sure, “moderate.”

Until you crave the one cigarette.

Mother? Poet? Do you want me, or not?

Moderate? There is no moderate:

I want to erase it, yes, that’s it,

Or, my God I love this poem a lot.








1 Comment

  1. noochinator said,

    December 19, 2019 at 7:36 pm


    RE: Pelosi sending off,
    It seems she’s in no hurry—
    It’s botoxed Barbara Stanwyck
    Vs. hair-plugged Fred MacMurray.

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