At Least Poems Can Be Pretty

Nothing for it but continue on.
At least there’s a fifty-mile-per-hour wind blowing ice in my face.
Some day waking to see the dawn?

It’s easier to keep on writing poems
than to help do the work that needs to be done. What excuse
do I have for continuing on?

Another lame question: by whom should the work be done?
I am an old biological-male of the white race,
hoping to wake from my nightmare of whiteness and see a dawn

of humanity. But not exactly pouncing on
chances to promote difference.
Nothing for it but continue on

and not worry about the snakes I tread on.
I only have one thing to contribute, and that’s my prettiness.
I don’t want to wake and see the dawn

if it’s going to be the same old ugly sun.
The dark night suits me fine—I’ll find my place
in it. Nothing for it but continue on,
not expecting to wake to any dawn.