A Shutdown Poem

A Congress of my past selves convenes
Hotly debating how to appropriate
The dull foul-smelling coins
That make more jingling sound than they can buy —
An outmoded currency, this rage.
They argue from all the times I’ve switched selves
That beliefs aren’t immutable. They stand me before a murder board
As if I were the head of some agency
Wanting me to testify, or keep silent and play it safe,
Because we all only speak in gaffes,
Duly spun and misinterpreted.
We can’t seem to resolve the impasse
And so I sit watching them move across the screen.
My agency has been shut down.
The hours filibuster one another,
True hijackers of democracy,
Tolling pitiless laws no vote can delay.