To the Man in the Red Cap
When was the last time you opened a newspaper—
or have you only heard the world through a feed that flatters you?
Your candidate isn’t whiffing—
he’s doing what grifters do—until the room decides to breathe together.
An emperor in a rented costume, fraying at the seams,
a con man scraping the barrel—until the crowd stops calling it a feast—
even your side can see him. Seeing is where change begins.
Congress is in session—
The tide can turn.
They’ll read the script and miss their cues—but the crowd can rewrite the ending.
not to save anyone—unless we build saving into law, into care, into daily habit.
Keep your victory lap; I’m saving my breath for the long haul—and I’m not alone.
The party ends when we stop dancing to whatever they play—and start making our own.
It’s over like that spotless red cap—
a stain pretending it’s a flag—until you choose to take it off.
bright enough to spot in a crowd—plain enough to put down and walk on.
Maybe it’s too much to fit in your head:
history doesn’t repeat—it waits for permission, and we can refuse.
“Not again,” we say—then we practice: we show up, we speak up, we stay.
So it doesn’t happen—because we choose each other, in plain sight.
I still remember the stories
my uncle used to tell—so we’d know what to name, and what to stop feeding.
How he served in a U-boat’s belly,
pulled into duty before his voice had even changed,
at fourteen—still a child, treated like inventory.
Kids shouldn’t have to learn the world that way. If we remember, they won’t.
