What comes after this,

my brother asks, how will things change? His children 
loud in the background, at the other end of the phone. 
It’s like any other ink-washed day in that dimension.
Droid bops from their television, their hearty heart heart cries
devolved to a hum. Miami light is a scream. Already 
the March sun relentless, bright-howling past
a stray cat or two, the broken beer bottles on the sidewalk, 
the lone black-hooded man slow-pedaling away. 
I think of my roommate and his aging Philosophy degree, 
restaurant job long-gone. My friend delivering expensive flowers 
through clockwork quiet neighborhoods to keep her business afloat. 
People should demand what is rightfully theirs, I say, waiting for his
whataboutgod. In my belly, the spirit lives hungry, a cavernous void, singing
the sad Hallelujah, not to praise but to kiss this searing light before she eats it.