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To caine's previous piece

when i stopped remembering a ladybug stepped out of the air conditioner

The voice over the radio hasn’t changed
in as long as I can remember.
That bullhorn tongue: as loud as walls,
as sure as Monday morning.
A month from now the only thing we’ll remember
is ripping down that election sign for no reason.
Gin and Everett playing in traffic,
being chased through projects;
five dudes with a half-sign
looking to tell us what they stand for.
We disappear into channels
of ladybug air conditioners
with sonic hourglasses.

The voice over the radio hasn’t changed 
in as long as I can remember.
Ecstatic static, supportive as hepatitis blankets;
the moment you step out of bed
there’s no one around who thinks you matter.
Nothing left to do
but cuddle up with the viral fabric
that taught you social graces,

taught you the voice over the radio 
doesn’t matter in cloistered rooms,
where lady bugs step out of air conditioners
with sonic hour glasses.

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