the poem remains
unafraid: a black Pegasus
tattooed on its
bare chest.
Do whatever you want!
the poem taunts, as people
steady the scaffold
and test the noose.
It’s dawn.
The poem’s been
awake for hours
wondering why
it has to be
this way, when once
there was song
and so much promise.
Do your worst,
the poem laughs, flexing
its pecs so the black wings
flap and the poem begins
to rise, begins
to see itself
far above the mob,
far from all the trouble—
objective, detached—
like a coffee shop:
citizens coming
with no dirty looks,
no axes to grind,
just wanting
into the relentless
day with clear sight
and a thumping heart.
Just get your coffee
and get out! the poem shouts
the sun leering now,
elbowing the clouds.