by Sy Roth
Above, a sky crammed with dusty grey clouds
a slate upon which an ancient loopy script
written by a chalk-board bad boy
who said he will not a thousand times
but he does.
Wind kicks grimly at the ground
Dust swirls and rakes the hems of their clothing.
Cameras snap sandpiles of pictures of
their wily smiles that blossom beneath their noses,
ensconsed in icy, raspberry-sorbet hearts,
beneath their Savile Row suits and Dior dresses.
Their hands clap each others’ shoulders
past their meandering stares, mired in their untruths.
Their circadian promises, rhythmic oaths of allegiance
betrayed in wry w’s etched in the corners of their eyes.
Sign accords with their enemies
Drowning them in rhythms of unspeak most cannot hear.
Cast their lies to the wind
and attach them to the clouds above with promises of
“I will not”.
Later the others query,