Shuffle your feet while the liar speaks.
Waggle your fingers,
jingle the loose coins in your pockets.
As the assembly mutters its morning oath,
bow your head,
but wink at your neighbour—
laugh without sound;
wink to cast off the lie
inside the hollow oath.
Mind the machine that makes the things
that become tomorrow’s trash,
but don’t love the job—
love is a pillar
holding up the bloody mess
you abhor.
Supping on the stoop on a summer evening,
speak out against moonshine and applesauce;
speak out against your own perverse mouth.
Plan rebellion in your head: ways
to stop a train, empty a building.
See your hand switching off the light,
plunging your self-appointed lords
into darkness.
Carry a flashlight,
a first-aid kit,
a flask of water, a chocolate bar—
calamity follows wherever you go,
so you better be prepared.
You were born to gatecrash parties,
arriving with a golden apple,
a felonious fruit claimed only by the beautiful—
their rivalries end in quarrels,
in lovers fleeing.
You were born to lie down in the street,
stopping traffic,
and when the policeman comes to drag you away,
you were meant to whisper in their ear,
I love you.
