Alan P. Scott - Verses

iwanna washitoff

we plunge our hands into fecund mud
and bring forth leeches
no sunlight bleaches
our plotting hands, mired in the
mud of politics,
a stream damned at the source,
you and me
together on a ticket too small to hold us
even one at a time, so
we pound at each other,
our hands full of leeches—
oh, for some sand
to scour ourselves clean
and free
to lie no more from
southern beaches

with leaves now a-falling
the politicians come calling.


©2007, 2008 Alan P. Scott. All rights reserved.

Last updated February 7, 2008

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