Police Budget Poem

Dear Editor,
   On the Proposal to Cut the Police Budget by One-Third of One Percent
    There’s a giant lawnmower in a not-so-distant heaven
   whose blades cut the air above my house so furiously
   that a substance as quiet and freely given as air
   is churned into a noise that echoes to the edges of heaven.
    It rocks the blossoms of my garden
   or wakes me up at night when it flies low.
   Ever since the protests God knows how much gas it’s spent
   circling like a buzzard that buzzes and doesn’t rest.
    What are you watching for? Another sign of unrest,
   like a teenager dressed for work in an essential business
   with his hands held high above his head
   to film from the heights of an interstate overpass
    The crowds that less lethal rounds
   of rubber bullets and lead shot cut down,
   until a bag of lead hit him in his head
   and fractured his skull?
    We only cut things as clear as youth or air,
   the mayor explained in a city council meeting.
   Black lives matter in the market,
   but we’re not here to cut the police budget.
    We cut through skulls, pregnant bellies, and men with their hands up,
   but not things that can be cut with a pen.
   Let this city be a sanctuary for your tired, your wounded,
   your ailing corporate earnings yearning
    to be free, the mayor said, raising his hands above his head.
   And no one cut him down.
    Now, the blades continue to cut
   the air above my house as the grass in the garden grows higher.
   It’s summer and they’re hoping we’re tired,
    but we’re just waking up.