Norm, it’s quiet. Too quiet, you know? The newspapers
are a blanket of snow, silent under the layer of lies,
compressed on the surface by the chill. Too quiet, in
the street, the subways, the lines. I thought hate was loud,
but it makes no more noise than an almond joy, eaten
on the way into the subway. Sometimes you feel
like a nut; sometimes you’re an enemy of the state
getting taken down over nougat and a layer of caramel,
while the citizens who are doing nothing wrong
stride by with their holsters slung low, and tied
above the knee against the quick draw that might be
called for between double mocha amaretto half-caf
and lowfat hazelnut soy chai if somebody (you
know the type) should step out of line at starbucks.
They are doing nothing wrong; they have no fear. . .
but Norm, nobody’s talking, there is only the cash
register and the sound of the frothing wand, now,
each patron eyeing the other’s scalding beverage and
trigger hand, wondering who’s faster, who’s the greater
threat. That woman with the almond joy, that eco-
terrorist breast feeding her mewling brat on the bus,
that blind and diabetic man with the gumdrops; Norm,
we didn’t want them in our militia anyway, take them away.