The Ecuador Riots

 I wish I could write a poem

saying that, among the teargas,

the fighting, the fear,

I found inner peace,

that somewhere in the toxic haze

the wave of the Buddha’s hand,

a calming shadow, caressed my head.

 

I could have used my time locked inside

to write my novel

or fill my journal

with heart-wrenching poetry,

profound reflections

of the tempestuous nature of man

and the senselessness or righteousness

this particular of violence,

of aggression in general.

 

I should have meditated,

rested, done yoga,

and plowed through the ever-growing mountain

of unread books in my office.

 

It would have been amazing

to report

that I spent those days in bed

with my beautiful wife,

the sharp boundaries separating her body from mine

melting away

in the entropic revel of pure ecstasy.

 

There are a lot of things

that I hoped I’d be able to say

when the madness passed,

 

but the truth is,

my comforter was too warm,

the movies on my computer, too numbing

to find myself in the darkness,

to stand up defiantly to my own ennui,

to fight the injustices raging outside my door.

***

(Cuenca, Ecuador -- October, 2019)

Back in Ecuador after our trip to the US, we found ourselves in the middle of a violent protest. Our apartment at the time was in the middle of the city, and it was so old that we couldn't close our windows all the way because of the warped wood in the frame. This meant that we had tear gas pouring into our apartment the whole time. Often, under conditions like this, people find ways to shine and do great things. In my case, though, I mainly just stressed out and watched the Twins get swept by the Yankees in the playoffs on my laptop. I actually think this poem is solid. It's just a little too specific and the imagery isn't particularly original.