The Capitol

At three o'clock he picked me up from school.
The quiet seeped through the radio,
defining his breathing,
breathing, like before you cry,
like he was on the edge of himself,
of his self control,
because he couldn't cry.
I had asked him what was wrong,
and he answered in a stuttering, red burst.
He said that there was a riot
a mob
a coup.
On the radio they call them protesters,
but I knew.
Protesters don't carry guns.
protesters don't hide bombs in buildings.
protesters don't use teargas.
At home we watched grimly 
as a mob of ugly 
red-faced apes, waving flags 
and wearing red hats and military uniforms
broke windows.
And watched as police officers
stood by, watching,
and opened doors,
and gave out bottles of water.
How could this be?
That when peaceful BLM protesters
were shot and tear-gassed
and beaten, and killed, and arrested by the police,
this red-necked, yellow-bellied, white supremacist, violent, armed mob,
which entered the Capitol
and threatened our democracy,
were let in,
and let out?