bring your lunch

i see my activist friend,

Wanda, who recently changed

her name to Hope,

sitting on her front porch,

spraying

Bactine onto her bare knees,

and squeezing

out globs

of Neosporin.

she's scraped and bleeding

all over.

elbows and chin.

cuts and bruises

are everywhere.

yo, i say to her.

what's up. oh my God,

what happened to you?

oh, i'm okay.

i'm fine.

just got a little banged up

yesterday

when we closed route

95 heading south

for six hours.

about a hundred of us

sat and laid down in the road

in protest.

we're trying to end the war,

stop Big Oil,

and support

transgenders.

oh, i see. interesting.

we're going down to the

white house today,

to chain ourselves to the fence,

and pour

red paint everywhere.

red paint?

yeah, it represents blood.

so what's your cause today?

we're not sure

yet, but we'll come up with

something.

do you want to come?

i look at my watch, ummm,

there's a really good game on today

at noon

and i have a load of clothes

in the washer right now.

plus i'm so far

behind on all of my New Yorker

magazines.

can i take a rain check on that?

sure, sure.

do you have any sandwich

baggies, by the way.

i ran out and i really want

to bring a lunch.

oh, and some mustard,

not the yellow stuff, but the

grey Poupon?

i'll check.