Hear Me
You’re not listening.
Those sand paper hands
that bring
tissues and principle
demands.
We broke clocks
when we should
have broken
bad.
And yet, one by one,
we were shocked
to hear
of tears, dried and
weary.
Your back, stiff and
unwavering like the
north side of South Dakota.
Your voice, an
Indiana breeze
that turned a blade
into two.
