Election, Election

Don’t despair you kings of towns yet to be named!
Hold on you princesses with thought and scepter bared!
Oh we of such mortal power,
have yet to put our stamp upon the hour.
We too will march to city gate,
to shake fists at the sky or the powers that be-
Until they extend whatever hand they have,
and quicken their steps to make thus the way, for you and me.
The November wind blows but once on a four year calendar;
not enough to set our wild and haughty souls at ease,
too fast to blow the petal, the proof, the seed,
any distance to talk of after church, or CNN, or over coffee,
or maybe tea and sympathy.
Perfection ready waits, just beyond our greedy grasp.
She is a wind that steady moves only the brighter of the dust from town to town,
until we hold our wooden scepter, wear our little crowns-
then our lady shall she be.


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