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.
