Robert Crisp
Electorate
“Do you hunger?” the woman clothed in red,
white, and garish blue asked as she churned—
mightily churned, I should say—the cauldron,
the contents of which smelled like dead promises.
I looked at my skeletal frame, impressed once more
by my angles, which suddenly seemed quite American.
“No, I’m fine, thanks,” I said and tipped the ol’ gal
a wink, then a blink, and finally shot her a bird.
The bird squawked, dropped from the clear sky
and plopped into the cauldron, which hissed with glee.
“Too bad it wasn’t a turkey,” the woman wheezed.
“Mr. Ben Franklin would surely have loved that.”
Robert Crisp currently hides out in Savannah, GA, where he where he teaches and keeps strange hours and stranger company. He writes poetry as often as he can. Learn more at www.writingforghosts.com
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