Election
by Joseph Veronneau



The art academy, with its doors posted wide
hold the key to what we call democracy.
The street held a few known meth labs
that sounded off over the course of the year,
readying for the pomp and circumstance
of slick, wing-tipped talkers.
Hands shaken before circles
are filled in,
crows circled over us,
cashmere coats and two-party
sensibilities overcast
a crowded block of pitched signs.
Cigars and thick, cheeky smiles
bounced and flashed
when each new guest entered.
This smells like
any other downtown block,
lost in a haze of smoke and speech
touted and praised
like a concerto of commanders
echoed and swollen, exhausts
spit out and inhaled
against our will.





Illya's Honey Literary Journal

Copyright by Dallas Poets Community. First Rights Reserved. All other rights revert to the authors.