Sometimes with elections
They get so exciting
We all forget we’ll die.
There we are, riled up,
Jeering or elated,
Having lifted some stranger
Into temporary powers,
Like building a kite from red paper.
It isn’t fake. Artifice
Doesn’t pulse or quake quite like this.
This popcorn puke razzmatazz
Is life, this is what stinger it stings with:
Ignorant events, trombones, hot cries
In the angry morning.
Don’t fret at earthly delight.
Soon a new candidate will rise.
Campaign volunteers jig under balloons
Drifting down like war-ash.
Bunting in barns, banners, betrayal,
All shifting, afterwards, gathering
Some place only diligent post-Dillinger FBI
Archivists care to find, in boxettes marked Y
For Yore. To say it’s functionless is a lie –
It mattered when it did, to us, in the Then.
Time’s like a ballot box, empty, then filled
Importantly, then counted out then taken away,
Then empty all over again, for a while.
It’s annoyingly infinite, the ways to describe
What we shed by having to change daily,
Importance is a thing with sides
That constantly skew sideways, open
To an eternity that has no clear definitions.
Things get going, go useless, grow new planks.
Those ships with high white sails going fast
Are now autumn trees, replicas for bored tours,
Each one a losing victory, standing to be corrected.
NOVEMBER 12, 2020