The old politician is in circulation again,
as interesting as aged coins, a complete moon,
and his mouth is full of words.
His words have all been worn smooth;
they’d shrink like lozenges, except
sweat from everyone desperately hanging on them
plumps and firms. This politician wants your
support. He licks his sentences like a lover.
Some people hoard words:
“In Purgatory a soul pinned to the rock…”
a sentence begins and then nods,
sleepy in the mouth’s hot kitchen.
The words are a spell to make the moon
more magical. The sentence never ends.
In Purgatory a soul’s pinned to the rock.
The moon’s so bright it is featureless;
a button with no holes.
I’ve nothing to say to the moon about Purgatory
Or politicians. Still, the words want to talk,
they have their magic to wield.
Some secret they withhold
until the last moment,
when words are more important than food.
Words are enough for all to eat.
The serene moon shines. The politician feels his
tongue. The words I yearn are sewing my body
to slumber. A semi colon; for now.
No hearsay is fine news, the politician’s here;
blood tying and untying its knots.
In purgatory a soul pinned to the rock…
David R. Morgan
If you have any comments on this poem, David Morgan would be pleased to hear from you.