The ship is sinking.
The ship
is sinking
and you
are peering over your glasses
clearing your throat
making plans around a table that six months from now
may be kindling
may be some billionaire’s conversation piece
may be history.
You are an antique slot car
tracing a metal track
laid long before liars and narcissists
squatted in marble halls
making declarations of alternative facts—
like children
proclaiming opposite day
and daring anyone
to call them out.
The ship is sinking.
While the rest of us
patch the holes
tend to the injured
and prepare to jettison those who would be kings—
can you not
at least
pick up a bucket
and bail?
by Gale Naylor
Poetry by Gale 