the protest movement

i'm a radical

she tells me. a left wing marcher.

i go to

demonstrations.

i'm all about the environment

and the man

keeping us down.

do you know what plastic

wrappers

do to sea turtles?

no, i tell her, do tell.

it's horrible, she says

and takes out her phone to show

me a turtle with

a plastic bag over it's head.

i have my own megaphone

and make my own signs.

my protest name

is tanya.

are you with us?

we're going downtown

tomorrow

to protest the treatment of chickens.

i lick my ice cream cone

as i stare at her 

wild eyes, her twitching

legs that look stubbly, sort

of like a chicken legs.

i'm thinking i should have

gotten

rocky road and not butter

brickle as i continue

licking my cone.

well, she says, are you in?

i can't date someone that isn't

part of the solution.

but it's going to be hot out

tomorrow i tell her,

nibbling on the edges of

my sugar cone.

are there any shady areas

we can throw a blanket

down and picnic,

shout from there?