i see my neighbor,
the protest weekend warrior,
on her
porch crying.
what's up, i ask, putting
my hand
on her shoulder.
she smells like
tear gas
and jail, Doritos.
i was in the pokey all night,
she tells me,
rubbing her
eyes.
her face is red as a tomato.
i shouldn't
have punched that cop,
but he wouldn't
talk to me, or answer my
questions
about the constitution.
so i hit him.
i think my ribs are bruised
from
his Billy club pushing against
me when
i joined the crowd
and tried to rush the detention
center.
i don't think i can play
pickleball
today,
or tomorrow, not to mention
go to the shoe
sale at Norstrom's
this weekend.
my left foot is swollen where it
got hit with a pepper
ball.
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