After a Speech at the Political Union

The politician’s man arrives real slow, molasses-like.
He looks bad news to me: television-glow, spit-shined.
The house lights flicker when he talks.
With impish spin and syrup tongue he curtsies at the boos:
“Do not hiss, you student speakers,” blabs strategist to mob.
“Out there are people affected by the laws.
“You will eat spaghetti dinners in town halls
“and pancake breakfast at the fire house,”
as though we’ve never heard of meatballs or left school.
Someplace, though, the citizens take note.
A woman sparks the burners on her stove.
A fireman buys eggs, sifts flour.
They set out folding chairs and paper plates and wait.
(They’re not so far away from us as that.)
Here I live in a wooden house, fear suffocation nights.
The fireman smothers flame, does something with an ax.

CDL