The Shield

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/ poetry

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Behind a thin glass window
in a cheap motel room
my pen hovers over paper
as the storm rages outside,
The panes rattle with each boom
and the curtains are
unable to repel each flash,
Rain impacts the window
and flows down as though
from a wound,
The words run together
like the AM stations on
the old radio,
Pundits with bible-black hearts
peddling nostalgia and
screaming for my redemption,
Impassioned Latino men
calling a match on the pitch
for a game so many don't
care to understand,
Smooth oldies croon from
dusty 45's spinning
in a smoky dance hall,
Still the storm presses in
threatening to shatter my shield,
and make this ink bleed
more than it already has.

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