A poem for Michael Moore:

Cowards

It takes bravery to badmouth the dead,
the ghosts are not reloading their weapons.

It takes bravery to hoist that mic high,
clearing the frame of the shot.

The camera lens cannot tell a lie
like a video editor, splicing together a script.

It’s a sniper scope. Aimed, it focuses,
on targets unaware of the crosshairs.

When the trigger is pulled he’s far away,
in a darkened room that smells of sex.

The filmmaker sleeps, a food-drunk bear
with no blood on his giant paws,

for underdogs, his bravery is popcorn butter
wiped onto a wrinkled tuxedo shirt.

Jay Sizemore