For who can be…the herald, unless
he have the voice of a Stentor?
Adjacent to a panel van, a sawhorse stands outside the plant
where signs in Braille are made.
Not for lack of skill they’ve brought someone in to do it.
A few houses in the other direction,
a neighbor continues to fly—just below an American flag—
a flag with an assault weapon printed on it
and the words Come And Get It.
It’s too late for my generation to do so
but (in God we trust) one day one of the hundreds
of children bused daily past his barred windows,
grown stentorian, will.
Except for the fact that our UPS driver—
as always, at the right place at the right time—
was killed sorting boxes on the loading dock,
the facts are repetition and the toll, seven,
including the mad engraver, about average.
In his apartment police found empty
packaging for 12,000 rounds.
What else was the gun club, where he gave
his muscles memory, blind to?
Or do they take instruction on how not to look?
There was no denial on the factory floor,
machines so loud the shots
weren’t heard soon enough.
For months after 9/11 we reached
for our remotes when actors fell from heights.
It was reflex, reason played no role.
Reason is a sawhorse and a gun for filling holes.
—for Keith Basinski