dead and buried, the previous ones
those with red blood instead of blue,
those whose memories fade just
like the photos we used to keep,
into the ground they were chunked
like bags of potatoes off a train,
useless weight once carried by those
who understood a weapon's barrel,
them whose wallets were fat on
the first of every month - empty
at the end just like clockwork...
an orange glow on a horizon hangs
like a noose around a thief's neck,
dangling down like that bag of
potatoes that northern train brought,
we count out dead at the end of battle
just like a gambler when dealing over
or the mayor who finally wins by
only one or two missing voters,
who had not the money for a ticket,
grateful is the one who has the
desire to say the blessing when so
few have anything at all to eat...
and the souls of the dead rise up,
out of their coffins, they are - glad
they were up in time to cast a vote.
November 19, 2025
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