A man parks his truck sideways
on the top of the structure, kids
spill out on skateboards, the man
is a father & these children scream
in delight & another man looks up
from his warm beer, searching; the sun
is sideways across the water & a crimson duck
flitters across the bright skyline & disappears
& Trump is still President & there are so many guns
& they outnumber us all & somewhere a child
is in a cellar just as Ursula K. Le Guin warned us
they would be—& that we must know this child’s
suffering to know joy—but this father & his raucous
children are oblivious & loving & loved & wild in play
& his over-worked knees grind as he watches
the kids speed down the oiled concrete ramps,
rough hands on pipe he laid, skateboards skirting
danger & taking whooping risks along the shaded
spiraling levels down & down, & he helped build
these ramps & poured the shell & his truck shines
& spills bright tin music & it is enough to know
that this man & his children all exist no matter
what this country will do to them & I am alone
behind glass, high in my rarified white air & below
me the man limps quickly down the concrete
ramp when there is a sharp cry from the dark
& I press my face against the cold glass & listen
& pray that the child will emerge unscathed
& unhurt & ready to trust that the love
that is trembled through the father’s hands
is enough to save us.