For National Poetry Month. This proves that one really can write a poem about anything, including rhetorical devices that annoy one and are rarely, if ever, useful in a world as complex as ours. So say I.
You have to draw the line somewhere, you say.
No I don't, because there is no line. There is only This: This decision, This man you will help or ignore, This woman you will embrace or reject, This company with questionable ethics, This candidate to support, or not. And ten minutes from now, This becomes That and a new This arrives, and you start again.
And while we're at it, there's no slippery slope, either. Yes, there are rocks; I see them too. But I'm on a flat plain, and so are you.
So do what this moment requires.
Or you can stand there, holding for dear life to whatever you hold to so you won't fall off this level place, clutching your ruler and your thick black marker.