There is a statue
in Seattle
of Lenin.
Lately, he has been painted
with blood on his hands.

When I go to the gas pump today,
I’m glad that the handle is red,
so people won’t see
the Ukrainian blood
on my hands.

We in the USA
import millions of barrels of oil
from Russia.
That money goes
to fund the Kremlin war machine
that is murdering Ukrainian babies,
senior citizens, youth, fathers, mothers,
ripping families apart.

Ukranians are free people,
(like we claim to be),
victims of a tyrannical onslaught
paid for by the gas
I purchased today.

When a Russian bunker-busting bomb
goes off in a refugee-packed subway
in Kyiv,
and ignites the very air
these men, women and children breathe,
so the last sensation they feel
is the air in their lungs
igniting, exploding,
burning them alive
from the inside out;

Or when a cluster bomb
randomly breaks into hundreds of
smaller bombs
just before impact,
sprawling and slaughtering
innocent civilians,
how much of those ruthless
war-crime,
crime-against-humanity devices
were funded by,
paid for,
by me?

Here in the USA,
we lovingly (and safely)
plant sunflowers
and wear blue and yellow
in solidarity with
those freedom-loving people.

We put our hands deep into
the dark, rich soil that mirrors
the farmlands of the steppes.

We clean up so nicely
to parade those proud colors
that drape the coffins
of Ukrainian defenders,
and stand in tatters
after the cruise missiles
that I helped pay for
strike Freedom Square.

All the soap in the world
will not wash away the Ukrainian blood stains
or the stench of Russian gas
from my hands.

My hypocrisy makes me sick,
but I cannot ride my bike
to Athens this weekend.
What else can I do?

As the citizens of
that great
freedom-loving country
die
because of our awful
energy policies,
greed,
and misguided directions,
I can only weep
and beg them for forgiveness.

Мені дуже шкода, що так сталося

I’m sorry.
I don’t know what to do.
I don’t know what I’m doing.