Right here,
where I live,
passing cars and trucks
are red, black, and loud.
Today’s humidity:
heavy, thick.
In the middle
of this neck
of our woods,
I wander up to the barn,
where a rat snake
slithers the frame.
Does she live
in the loft?
Among leftover
hay bales?
And campaign signs, retired—
most local,
sad sighs,
with Harris/Walz,
Biden/Harris,
Hillary for 2016—
with a shotgun hole
blasted through.
And Obama/Biden,
then Andy
& Jacqueline.

A tailpipe backfires.
I flinch, and think:
what will they do next—
to my Coleman
and Booker—
when they arrive?

I wish to be elsewhere
this Juneteenth.
Chicago? 
Where I could forget.
For maybe, at least,
one single day.