Listen
I started taking walks again
to have a reason to leave the house
and shake off the blues of being
stuck indoors with a woman I love
but can’t touch without thinking
this is as good as it’s gonna get
while the world outside dies slowly
and knows it. I started listening
to podcasts again because I needed
to listen to people talk about
something (anything), even though
it annoys me to listen to people
who are smarter than me, or worse —
think they’re smarter than me.
Outside it’s so hot, I peel out
of my hoodie like Janet Jackson
singing “I Get So Lonely.” On the podcast
they’re debating artifacts to preserve
for after the apocalypse, referencing
cold war fears & atomic nightmares,
all of which seems quaint today,
but I get it — coming at the present sideways
in order to catch some glimmer
of insight when it’s not looking.
The Declaration of Independence
& The Bill of Rights are the usual
artifacts that folks agree to preserve
or burn. There are a few curveballs,
but only one hits me when I’m halfway
home, so I forget all about it
because there’s still so much time
to waste listening to people talk,
while keeping one ear open to pick
up on the random pickup truck
that may be coming my way
full of white men geared for violence.
It’s not until several days later
that I remember to look up
Mahalia Jackson’s rendition of “The Lord’s Prayer”
at the 1958 Newport Jazz Festival.
When I finally watch her perform,
I recall what the podcast said —
how the video captures the crowd
of white and black faces caught
in the dark, quiet as stone,
as they bend to Mahalia’s voice
turning prayer into blues, strong
enough to make me believe
that everything might be alright.
But I’d make a poor guide —
since after the applause, I’m back
to believing when we’re all dust,
that the real miracle will be
if anyone’s around to open
the vault of artifacts and hear her
sing. If only we listened now,
and not in some distant future
where we’re all dead and gone,
hoping the next civilization fares
better than this one.
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