That was the time we were full of faith.
People shook our hands in the streets
and wished us well. Kids rang the bells
on their bikes. Birds preached in the trees.
Whatever they said, we believed them.
Mayor Small Time
We stormed the city that was only a hamper and blanket.
We burned down a pound of ground beef on the stove.
We mounted our horses. Our horses were broomsticks.
We published our presto real-time manifesto.
Our bedbugs marauded on the backs of mice.
The drum was a tin of Café Bustelo.
The guitar strings were plucked from the drain of the sink.
We were small time, and getting smaller.
We crashed the iron gates. Our horses were toothpicks.
A jar of mango chutney smashed to the ground.
We got down on our knees with damp terry cloths.
We were as naïve and hopeful as toddlers
waddling out across the room which for us was the Earth.
The mayor’s accountant was as humourless
as a glass of snow.
A glass of snow was on the lawn.
The tongues of the deer
are the tongues of the gods
according to local legend.
The deer, growing brave,
dipped their little tongues into the glass
while the mayor’s accountant
holidayed with his shame.
He put a gun to his mouth
as the sun shone in Boca Raton.
Snowfall continued at home.
The mayor’s spiel was the same.