A Poem For The Present

by Luke Otley

I wake up every mourning
in a world packed to the rafters
with His & Her handguns,
heart hammering and snapping
like a thousand thumbs, fingernails exciting
the iron edges of tribal drums,

green tea won’t work,
even booze makes me nervous–
twitching at the slightest sound,
muttering ’bout the tanking Pound,
studying the cracks in the concrete
on a path to safer ground.

I still got hope,
staring at the glowing banners of Ads;
they show me beauty everywhere,
the sun shining, people smiling without a care,
almost as if this place exists
where you can’t taste the violence
in the air.