There is street poetry* everywhere; angry and articulate, rude and respectful: “Respect existence or Expect resistance”, “Dear Climate: We’re sorry”, “Say it loud, say it clear: Immigrants are welcome here”, “We Shall Over-Comb”, “Pussy Grabs Back”, “Read a fucking book”, “Reject the fascist-elect”.
I stand for more than a dozen first-degree relatives, people who are too young or too old or too busy or too oversubscribed to turn out today, but whose dismay wants even so to be counted. I stand for several dozen second-degree relatives, for more, and beyond, from whom I read and hear their distress, who by walking for I may caress. I stand for dozens upon hundreds of friends and neighbors, workers and acquaintances who stand with me in spirit yet who cannot turn out in person.
We cannot all turn out but this is in my job description and so I do.
I raise children, I hold them and instruct them and walk with them hand-in-hand as they gain their own foothold on the path of life.