Poetry | September 28, 2020
Poems: Allison Pitinii Davis
The Neighborhood Girls Catch Lordstown Syndrome
but if you want our version, you’ll pay
in installments. You’ll neigh in a stall
until we come out and free you. We hear you,
we hear you over the factories and over
the wildcats, the slowdowns, the one of many
slanted atop another. All marked down
for condemnation, demolition—baby, do you parse
this diction? Merciful, our kind of telling. Its sheen:
our boyfriends’ sweat rolling off the car plant.
We caught their syndrome—a tragic case—
spreading at the conveyor’s pace,
but we’re no fodder for your headlines.
Our picket line is understood:
another day in the neighborhood.
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