There are people yelling
outside my window
against the backdrop
of a children’s playground.
They’ve been at it for awhile.

I cannot see them,
or tell how real it is,
or how angry they are,
or if they’re friends,
or lovers,
or utterly at odds.

But I am lying here
slightly afraid
that violence might ensue,
and I am making a plan
for what to do
if gunshots ring out.

I should feel ridiculous
and absurd
and even embarrassed
for such a worry,
and maybe I am.
But maybe I’m not.

Not in this world,
broken as it is.
Where men stand in
powerful pulpits
with the world’s attention
and call hate and violence
patriotism and purity.
Not when public protectors
become something to fear,
and streets run red
with racism’s endless hunger
for bodies of color.
Not when trans women fall
like leaves in autumn
and barely a rustle stirs
from passing feet.
Not when guns pop
Like so many deadly balloons.

Every loud noise should
make us tremble,
and silence too.

Maybe I’m not
so wrong to be worried
about shouts
on a playground,
and maybe that is
what’s absurd.