Drums Across the Mohawk

Drums across the Mohawk,

brass bands on the wind,

Sousa drifting into soused patriots ears,

“Cheers” they say, glasses raised:

flag on the wall, Star-Spangled

or the starry saltire,

Trump-pet voluntary vileness

the only thing uniting

the North and South

for years.

Beers along the bar top

shots in close order,

parade-waiting for parched Sausolito boys

toys – no- guns at fingers’ reach.

Death in the air, drink summoned

or simply stupid.

Trombone-catastrophe columns

in both coast newspapers

or live on air

for viewers.

Knives out on the Mile End,

watch out for acid

bottles under the long-sleeved hoodie tops,

drops enough for gang-boys pride.

Hate on the streets, fool-conjured

in parliament:

foghorn re-broadcast liars

in your on-line pap-feed,

just as honest

as this is.