Second Coming No. 340 — December 25, 2025
A poem-a-day protest against the threat posed to our democracy by Donald Trump and his fascist regime
Vance Hedderel
“Richard Howard,” I said,
“Ute Lemper … one night only. I’m sure you understand.”
Richard understood. When a German diva comes to town,
one attends, even if one misses a poet’s reading.
***
I turned 13 and America turned 200. Every night
on television was a Bicentennial Minute: tiny history
lessons served to impatient Americans. One night
was a visit to the Kennedy Center. Then one night Barbra
was broadcast live from there and into my living room.
“How lucky can you get?” she sang. I knew
I’d get to visit one day. Sometimes things fall
into place. Months later, my mother chaperoned
a high-school close-up trip to Washington. I came along.
One night we saw her dream dance: Romeo and Juliet
with Rudolf Nureyev. Like my power over
pinball tables, willing rolling steel into my chosen lane,
I willed that night into being.
***
One decade later, I was a student in Washington.
Kennedy Center tickets practically free for me.
So many nights followed, all kicked off by Ute.
A night of poetry versus a night of poetry.
Richard understood, but he didn’t know
I risked my life by running across six lanes
of curvy Rock Creek Parkway where no car
ever stopped or dropped below 50 miles per hour.
I was afraid to ask directions before
portable phones and maps were in every hand
and anyone could record a poetry reading
to watch it later. Nothing stopped me,
not even oncoming cars. I had to hear Ute
sing Kurt Weill’s “Trouble Man” live.
***
My heart dropped twice in my life:
once I knew Jim was lost to me, once
an immoral man chose to present performance
as a moral issue, to make the Kennedy Center
a battleground, a fight for so little, no winner.
***
I live near a bridge. I walk over it and see
the Kennedy Center. At the Kennedy Center
I can see where I live. Or I could if a president in
name alone hadn’t decided this building was a prop.
I support art, but I can’t support an administration
refusing to treat art in a temple as art:
an assertion of power with no delight.
***
In 1972, my class held a mock election.
29 for Nixon. One not. Me. I knew better,
even then. I also knew the delight of not
thinking. The amazement for me? The ease
of accepting others’ opinions like thought
is just one more task to get done before bed,
so better not to bother with it at all.
***
In four years, I will walk through the Hall of States
and the Hall of Nations. I will remember
Julie Harris in front of a scrim that hid Africa
until the lights rose. I will remember
Vanessa Redgrave in profound grief as Hecuba.
Spalding Gray presaging his suicide on stage.
Nigel Kennedy’s sharp violin stabs. Audra McDonald
battling Zoe Caldwell before Audra had even one
of the six Tony Awards she now has. I will have
the memory of the sexy young man following me
one slow afternoon, even down to the parking lot,
even though I didn’t have a car. I’ve seen
so many buildings destroyed. So many
things dismantled, bulldozed, some
just fall apart. Dust settles. Some buildings
reopen. Some I still stand outside.
Vance Hedderel’s poems have appeared in Ploughshares, Chelsea, Poetry East, White Wall Review, Cape Rock, and other journals. His performance pieces include Should Women Hang? and A Seminar on Hate and Desire. He is a fellowship grant recipient of a Virginia Commission for the Arts.
Second Coming is a project of Indolent Books, a haven for poets over 50 without a first book and a welcoming space for women, people of color, queer and trans writers, and others who do not fit molds or conform to expectations.
Consider becoming a paid subscriber or making a one-time tax-deductible donation to Indolent Books, a 501(c)(3) nonprofit literary press.
Bravo!