she could nitpick the thread off of a screw
then she would take the string and wrap it around you
to pull you down to her shoes
to sing her the little boy blues.
She survived five
flashes of
fashionable fascism.
The moon melted
hot wax disappointment
on her tracks.
The straight backs
stuffed her confidence
in burlap
sacks.
With all this advice you’re trying to sell. If you raise it, then you’ll get hell.
Judging me for what you have heard I’ve done
build the idea of me based on stories from where you’re from.
It all seems like fragments and in the end
I lose hold of the sanity I seem to can’t keep.
A hundred effigies wearing my suit, tie and smile
burning to the drums you beat.
