The Mayor

The Mayor

The chill envelops the arms like sleeves;
it wants to be worn,
shown off like anniversary pearls,
smooth skinned,
tasting of envious eyes that smell of glue.
Grab its tail, if you like, but it will squeak free
to scurry in a corner, always watching
always gnawing at bare toes .
But why must they be bare?
But why can’t they be bare?
This is the problem of sunlight
that doesn’t burn, muscles
that don’t stretch, only break.
The blue-veined arm of need
which doesn’t consider the perspective
of tan. You are the mayor of worthless,
and I will only vote for you. But understand
I’m asking you not to run.
Tomorrow yawns, stretches its tootsies
and wanders to the fridge, praying for:


CL Bledsoe


Posted over on Hamilton Stone Review