RYAN MCCARTY

What Will Poets Do Now?
	        	(a sort-of cento)

Some will slouch,
like devils still
sick of sin, toward
Bethlehem, their
beautiful sons
galloping
like a pickup 
with its wheels gone.
The days will die,
violet halos
of exhaust. Some
of us will choke 
our ways straight thru, 
plenty lucky
for love and leaves.
When a stray cat,
slim young fascist
fresh from the hole,
asks us why not
do something, some
will have the guts
to walk at three
AM. They’ll be
angels of bread,
imagining.
We might use books
as weapons, not
metaphors. We’ll  
have the patience
of a splinter
working its way
to the surface
and keep quiet
the worrying mind. 
We’ll tell families
with silverware
and cars. We’ll ask:
Are you finished
wringing your hands?
Definitely.