The followers of the flag
have forgotten their Aerogard.
They’ll vote for mortgage
relief, pushing the rest
to the back of their minds;
consumed by mosquitoes
and flies and fleas and lice
just like the rest of us.
We all bear the marks, whether
or not we follow the flag.
The numbers swing back
and forth, it’s slightly
less than misery
but there’s no let-up.
Birds fly within a wingspan
of the high-frequency
masts on the mountain
and drop dead. That’s it for them.
The parboiled—it’s scorching
enough to change skin colour,
damn summers seem
to be getting hotter!—go nowhere,
stuck on reading, writing,
arithmetic, the ballot box.
They say: why change
what’s not broken?
taking pride in their
craftsmanship. Here,
the tormented are barely
naked, their moans
registers of their voting,
or turning out in public,
determined to show
they’re not outspoken.
It’s forty-degree heat
on election day:
locusts and blowflies
rush the shade,
some even hand out
how-to-vote cards:
the followers of the flag,
the parboiled.