the promises of powerful men
waiting for thoughts to turn to memory,
you swallow the coldness that bubbles up
to the surface in dense dense
forests of bloody mucous,
while
dry faucets
squeak and gasp and clutch their chest
like the old lady finding a corpse in the root cellar.
not even the mice are content
as they fall off the television
which last flickered clearly
during the watergate hearings.
waiting for speeches to emerge from candlelight
is waiting for death.
diabetic eyes
nearly blind,
are still
rainmakers,
and seven toes gone.
the others,
black and waiting.
feet
understand the situation.
shoes are
put out for the cat.