Political Poem Poem by Steven Federle

I don't want to write political poetry,
but conflict washes over my native land
like a Katrina surge.

A tempest in a teapot
doesn't mean much
compared to the
relentless fury
of the tsunami.
This year's leaves, floating
gently to my lawn
glowing orange and gold
through the afternoon sun,
signify more than any inept
congressional
super-committee;

but when I see a policeman,
a man I want to call
protector, hero, friend,
spray orange pain
on crouching kids;

when protesters become enemies
of the state, and plans to smash
hope are made
on great, glistening tables
in bank boardrooms
gleaming
with the tears
of the foreclosed,

then must I write political poetry.
I'll fire a simile
into the executive suite,
I'll make strong the barricades
with my fierce metaphor.