poem
Volume 33, Number 2

Meaning

After much pain, there exists a meaningful
“we,” and we capture one
of them. The others mostly died
in bed, on yachts, on islands
their money kept afloat, in bunkers,
in Switzerland; we shot a few.
We expect his defense to be
that he himself did little, which is true.
Instead he takes responsibility
for everything: the lies, the climate,
the quality of life. Asked why,
he shrugs. Shows little affect; says
if they had won they wouldn’t be as nice
to us as we have been
to him. It’s easier to think
(although he doesn’t, really)
it’s for some reason.


—Frederick Pollack