Can’t find a poem for this

Yesterday, among the thousands of daily aggressions across our convulsing continent, a mother and her child was chased by a sign-carrying woman, who was shouting, almost shrieking, others joining, accusing the mother of abuse because her child was wearing a mask.

And I wondered how this person, perhaps a responsible employee, a decent neighbour, perhaps a mother herself, came to carry out such an act. In front of a school. On an ordinary sidewalk. A warm, clear, sunny day, a day for a slow walk, an attractive day, so many other things one could do.

And I wondered what lies beneath, above, within (is there a place?) such an act. This, on the whole, a minor violence — unless you are the child, or the mother, who would have rushed home carrying her child, would have slid the dead bolt shut, closed the blinds to the cloudless sky.

Tomorrow, recalling the white GMC van on the corner of Wallace and Oak, the lath and stapled cardboard squares in the back seat of the newish Honda, parked three blocks from school — she will take a different route.

Tomorrow, the decent neighbour, good employee, will connect with those of like mind, those who know many certainties — latter, go grocery shopping, at the checkout, mention the beautiful weather, make dinner for her family.

Forgive me. I’d like to find a poem in this. One that carries something worth remembering. One that inoculates against our current contagion of resentment. One that pulls the mask off anything based on vanity and lies. One that makes violence a stranger in our mouths, in our hands. But I cannot. Still, I can’t seem to move on without at least making a note.