Sunday Compass

I tried to write a lighthearted piece about pie on the counter because we had pie for dessert tonight, apple pie, with whipped cream, so I wrote a quick poem, a throwaway poem about pie and whipped cream and the entitlement of indulgence, but I left in it Drafts because it’s too frivolous, I have no business talking about pie when somebody’s son got their head cracked open by a gang of cops who laughed and joked and smoked cigarettes afterward, propping him up against a squad car like a mannequin while they celebrated their virility or whatever it is they call it, the propped up man’s mom saying later she was called at four in the morning by a doctor who told her to come see what happened and say goodbye which he knew was the only thing that she could do, so she did, and now all of us, those of us with pie on the counter and everyone else are spectators to this crime and this grief, and wondering what to do next.