The teleprompter 

has died leaving us without

 any words to say 

Kids on a seesaw 

slam down hard and soar up once 

more like our country 

Drive yourself senseless 

in an altered universe 

constructed of lies 

The gravestone, cracked and

faint, once held meaning for loved

ones, now forgotten 

May the simple joy 

of a Sunday nap remind 

you what life can be 

The slips are empty 

and the boats headed south while we

wait for winter's breath 

I overhear the 

crows' conversation — is it

a squabble or news?