Turtles At The Convention Center


a turtle swimming, mid-paddle, in a bright blue ocean

No one will have
ever so thoroughly
studied the ugly carpet.

They are unimpressed by
the automatic projector screen,
a hundred pitchers of iced tea.

They see the failing
of so many rows of chairs all
facing the same direction.

I worry for them,
stunned by cold
in unfamiliar waters,

Where do we swim to
in this blinding ocean of 
artificial light?
Where we come from,
you can always follow
the sun upwards to breathe.

I feel that way too.
Not so far from an animal,
I get lost quickly anywhere indoors
without windows.


I have heard them compare
Mitch McConnell to a turtle.

I firmly believe this is
an insult to turtles.

Their shelled bodies
mostly unchanged,
a resilient frame to ride through
a hundred million years.

Age and wrinkled skin
are no failing,
but greed is.

Maybe we’d be better off
if we each lived inside
a small domed house.

Need carried close to our body,
no space to take
anything that isn’t ours.

Originally published in Thimble Literary Magazine, Volume 4 No. 1