~
fan mail for the mayor ( a p o e m )
…
we scratch our itches, rub our sores
we stretch our stretches, yawn our yawns
we comb our chest hair - almost roar
then pay the gnomes to
mow the lawn
we write our fan mail for the mayor
we pause mid-thought on wobbly chairs
we inspect smudges over there
then think of nan's hips
whispered prayers
we plod through valleys in the rain
we whistle folk songs with no name
we catch our busses, miss our trains
then grief turn bleak - oh
who to blame ( ? )
we talk to no one in our homes
about the war then so-&-sos
we talk for days - they don't half drone
'tis tiring fair - time flies
time goes
...
