protests & paperwork

​

the town where i learned to breathe
kept a porch light going,
a small sun with tinnitus.
tonight it hums to the moths and the meter.

​

down the block: a white sedan that’s never idle,
dark windows up, antenna stings.
engine signals stealth.
While dogs muzzled behind the chain link taste nothingness.

​

city hall – nothing more than stained carpets, bleached echoes.
doors and envelopes, licked shut.
shapeless forms drift--wrong tray, wrong hands, wrong wounds.
a camera blinks a red eyelid, identity erased.

​

on main, the pharmacy sign high.
blue screens tilt the story until faces don’t fit.
comments, the cursor severs the link
your uncle forwards a clip dressed in certainty,
a glossy magazine voice, discount code at the end.

​

3 a.m.: the newsroom chewing cold pizza slices,
coffee, tires, grit – an engine revs
the copier counts to ten; absolution, numbers.
mics go cold; the room teaching itself to whisper.

​

hope without an introduction.
old sneakers and a vape exhale at the door,
a spare room with hospital corners,
dogs finally asleep, the house learns dark.

​

a soft “no” growing surprising teeth.
the list lengthening: rides offered, kids watched,
names spelled right, dates stamped hard.
the room at capacity, jackets over chair backs.

​

we hold ground with daylight and paper
ink drying slow, affidavits smudging.
stand up, for sure,
and also log in, call, count.
make room. keep watch. say the names.

change the receipt
who ate, who made it home, who got heard.
nothing pretty.
the knot giving a little,
fiber by fiber,
one mean inch.
 

© Sreedhari Desai