When they can, they drive
by slowly: holding
their cameras and
honking their horns—some
gentle taps, some sharp,
percussive—blaring,
joyful—all sounding
different: the tiny
high-pitched toy beeps like
little kid pedal
cars or the low, slow
foghorns from semis—
always a little
hiccup when the
truckers honk, show their
solidarity—
like recognizing
a long-lost cousin.
Other times they drive
by so fast I’m scared
for the protestors
perched on the curb edge,
stretching their signs—out
into the roadway—
willing the drivers,
the passengers, the
adults, the children,
the dogs to see there’s
a fight going on,
heed their handcrafted
messages, clever
cartoons, impassioned
pleas—to join the fight.
Only a handful
of middle fingers,
thumbs down, gunned engines—
but how much damage
those few can do. Smug
in their confidence—
their righteous wrongness—
more intent on a
show of strength than a
clear-eyed perception
of reality,
they follow a fool,
support a strongman,
burn rubber into
the intersection—
all without looking.
I focus on the
children: their wide eyes,
their rapt attention,
as they pass by. Hope
they remember the
sight of thousands of
strangers standing here
together. Hope this
moment is taken
up into their bones,
into their marrow:
a symbol of what
democracy looks
like—because this is
what democracy
looks like. This is what
democracy looks
like. I’ll see you there.
by Gale Naylor
Poetry by Gale 