This morning as I slowed for red light,
a winged insect flitted nearby trying to cross the road.
The tiniest of unnoticed things,
darting between tires and fenders
while cars rushed past
people going somewhere important.
It rolled and tumbled,
and I thought, this is the end.
But no.
It righted itself
Skirted danger
Almost reached the other side
Almost reached safety
Then, it inexplicably turned back
Drawn into the slipstream of a passing truck
The wind knocked it down
The next car finished it
Yesterday, a hateful man was assassinated
the very kind of violence enacted he once said was justified.
Today we remember violence of the past
while our country unravels.
Dialogue weaves to and fro.
Each voice rushing to be important,
rolling and turning back into the slipstream.
We wring our hands and ask how it has come to this.
We blame the truck,
without recognizing the truth.
That we all keep putting gas in the engine
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