"Call me Caitlin." A poem.

In what deeps, little stormcloud?

hissing and losing substance, 

should I still, 

ignoring the kicks,

call you Kaitlyn?

Don said, like Chris had said,

"We're all gay until its our turn."

Ching Wua news reporting went level W

and the little men, the little men from the Pleidaes.

Those pulled at Caitlin's toes,

even as she kicked against the pricks

and the pounded the posts,

still there were,

on these serene streets,

a cadre of restless ghosts.

It was from the Don,

the sancten'onus on Ron,

and the reporter's hair, fear-bleached white,

heard some from Mike.

Mike Jay Pence.

That is.

Traffic lights

and girls scouts on bikes.

I said "Caitrin" again,

and away

my troubles went.