I Can Do Politics Too

Tufik Y. Shayeb

it sticks
in the back of your throat

a slouching bookshelf
buckling under the weight
of one too many volumes,

crowded against the rosy
floral wallpaper

charts and graphs,
politics is cut along the dots
with the rusty scissors
of your reason,

progress is telegraphs, honk
honk, can you hear me now,
friend—bulky,

bench pressing ideologies
until we learned
how to do geography

you are heaving crickets
when you speak of it,
legs and wings

you are on your back,
when you defend Congress,
and big soap box choices
 
you are a blue prayer bead
that someone religious
lost

there is nothing sacred
about you,

when you stand on the news
like water,

pretending that sidelines
are the perfect place
for losers

there is nothing sacred
about it, just a deformed
rain cloud

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