Flint

(A Canadian Poem)

Mr. Davis taught American History Through Film;
an eleventh grade elective. Towards years’ end he screened
Roger & Me, gonzo-documentarian Michael Moore’s love-song
for his hometown of Flint, Michigan, victim of the nineteen-eighties.
After Apocalypse Now, I was ready to hate Americans some more.

There is an out-of-place, third act scene
where Moore meets a woman who stuck with Flint
and took to raising rabbits to survive. Matter-of-factly
she flips the skin off one while explaining the new regulations
for rabbit-keeping the state has introduced. Mr. Davis hit pause.

“Look at this,” in his baritone. “Watch this.” He rewound too far
and we had to re-watch some other scene first, and while I’m waiting
I’m thinking, why the fuck is he making us watch this again?
What the fuck’s his problem? I can’t un-see this shit.

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2 thoughts on “Flint

    • I would recommend that if someone posts their own original writing that you not suggest they may need a ghostwriter, or coaching services. Comments like that make me assume either, one, you did not read what I wrote and you are just spamming me, or two, you did read what I wrote and you think it’s bad.

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