3. A fork tilts, clatters

A fork tilts, clatters
tuning my audience in to the rising pitch of me
busting free from patience caging soundbites from the day
My plate untouched, spoon in air, conducting bits of NPR and
NYT and comments section
of Fox News
I ooze from class to class to meeting across the quad and up the stairs and 
the guns won’t stop firing; kids keep waiting for parents who won’t come; the aid is a weapon; lobsters feel themselves boiling; the survivors keep dying; too cold for potatoes; the border buckles
My insides are plastered with headlines and hot takes
banged out with abandon like a tantrum’s fists against keys
I am hemmorhaging this uncooked mess of compassion and distress
as dinner sits untouched
tablemates politely nod
and the world spins madly on

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