Who has the tar and feathers?

where the birds congregate
who knows:
but they sure commit themselves
after all
tallying up the numbers perhaps
on their own.
and we:
the electoral proxy
struck down pale
while the maroon of our shirts
run down wet shoe polished streets.
our hands are roped
by the man they say;
and at the same time
the molten spit
of the our earthly caretakers
conjure up facial expressions
that cause flash floods
and hurricanes
in the collective mind.
where are we to go
if the collisions
become our own reality?
faked in total
but yet
we respond with a therapeutic laugh.


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