A political poem wants equal time,
begs for space, but by the second stanza,
I cut it short of hopeless—you see
what’s happened, we turned it over
for someone else to run, like the garbage
and sewer, keeping our hands and noses
clean while chasing rainbows: all the new
ads for comfort and joy that we believe
we deserve. I’m guilty, turned my back
on the dramas and the bad actors
who have forgotten their lines, forgotten
who they’re working for or why.
drycrikjournal 