STRAY DOGS AND CREDIT CARDS
I have no wisdom this morning. A soft
Slow rain drapes Atlanta in a soft
grey shawl as if to say Hush; calm;
rest. I feel neither anger nor pain at the fact
that a 50 foot wide ring of my brothers and sisters
were showered with glass and bits of tin
from a crude device left behind
by some half-bright redneck
who even now is probably giggling and goshing
over the accomplishment. The blast
does not reach this far, I cannot feel
the shockwaves, the heat
cannot crawl through this shawl
of calming rain. Our President
has declared this an act of cowardice, but even those words
have grown cold and dim, light
as an empty leather satchel. I doubt
the power of this blast, doubt that its force
is sufficient to distract us from the insatiable gravity
of tourism, the irresistable force
of spectacle. The voices of the victims are silent, their faces
bland and pasty, their expressions dumb. Their pain
is meager compared to their astonishment
at the largest event likely to ever happen in a world
where the largest threats to known peace have been
marriages and mortgages, child care, oil changes,
stray dogs and credit cards.
Calm, Atlanta; calm. The sky
did not fall. Our numbers are guarded;
security is high, and the games,
indeed,
these games will go on.
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