A Small Town Election

by Brian D. Morrison

 

6.  The New Mayor Can Fly, and So Can Everyone Else

  

The new mayor sits in a chair and watches

the townspeople crawl

                               from place to place

to home.

A woman goes back out for forgotten

eggs for a birthday cake.

 

The new mayor counts the number of times

the grocer restocks bananas.

The new mayor, above

 

the town, behind wide glass

breaks through it, wings,

                              heavy as the world is old

and black against the sun,

flapping. And when the curious don’t blink,

when the skeptics resign

 

opinions, all nod in unison.

All comply. One by one the townspeople

he waves to take flight,

 

as well. They all rise, a perfect

V of humanbirds, until their wings

all freeze, and they fall.

 

The new mayor doesn’t show up

in pictures, isn’t available for comments.

And like it didn’t happen,

 

like it isn’t outside possibility, the people

remain okay. They applaud

the mayor’s humility

 

in walking away from controversy

because weirder things happen

in small towns no amount of talk

 

can explain. Fake news, they say.

And they move on. It’s what

they do. No belief

 

in the unbelievable. They won’t blame

their leader, who was, by all accounts,

elected fair and square.

Comments are closed