Missiles flashed, and it was beautiful—
flares in the darkness of a fallen world
where Satan plays the good guy in a wig.
I’m in my safe space, a battered easy chair,
swearing at the laptop, at the stream
of video and voices, overlaid
on top of breakfast. Coffee’s gone lukewarm,
the trail’s gone cold. The woman on TV
hasn’t realized it yet. Her show
is sub-LeCarré trash, the waking dream
of self-styled cells in Williamsburg, Crown Heights,
Bushwick, even Windsor Terrace now.
They’ll surely man the barricades some time
after the co-op shift, when work slows down
and the app is live and making NASDAQ bank.
The cast of Hamilton will sing a song—
a poem by Ocean Vuong now set to music
by some ex-junkie from the punkoisie
while bombs explode, bigger than before,
to make a new crater in Afghanistan.
Quincy R. Lehr’s most recent poetry collections are The Dark Lord of the Tiki Bar and Heimat. He teaches history in Los Angeles.