Prose Poem: I am a Capitol Rioter.

 

I am a Capitol Rioter.

I was there, in the middle of things,

when it all went down.

I thought I was doing the right thing.

Now . . . I'm not so sure.

It all started innocently enough.

I was sitting on a butt-sprung couch

in my neighborhood used book store,

glancing through Goldwater's 

"Conscience of a Conservative"

when the calico cat on the counter

said clearly and distinctly to me:

"You're needed in Washington

to knock some sense into Congress."

The next day I was on the bus

to Washington, District of Columbia.

When I got there I found kindred souls

gathered outside the Smithsonian,

chanting and waving placards that read:

WE ARE NOT AMUSED.

I can't say there was any one person

or persons who organized our march;

to me it appeared completely spontaneous

and undirected. I was actually

headed down the street to get a hamburger

when the crowd surged towards Capital Hill,

and I was forced to go along.

I didn't really want to topple that

marble bust of Thomas Jefferson in

the Rotunda. Or throw granola bars

at departing legislators.

But everyone else was doing it.

So I went along.

It seemed to be my patriotic duty.

Bunker Hill all over again.

But the next day,

when reports started to circulate

that we were all being branded

as 'terrorists' and would be

hunted down and prosecuted

by the FBI,

I left town and moved to

a foreign country where my

hefty bank account assures me

complete anonymity.

And I help baby sea turtles hatching

during the full moon to make

it safely into the ocean.

That is an activity that gives me

peace and assurance of life's

basic goodness.

I'm beginning to think 

that calico cat was

all wet.