The season
rolls around
once again;
fall foliage in rainbow colors
consists of
broadsides tacked to trees,
candy-coated come-ons
and smiling faces, that say
‘‘I will build you
a better world
if you would only
cash in your tiny share
of America
and hand it to me.’’
The man on the street
is bewildered
by all the cotton-candy colors
polluting trees and lampposts.
When the big day comes,
he joins the horde
of blank faces,
each
attached
to a hand
that clutches a ticket
to democracy
In a daze, he marks his preference,
then wanders
back to his street
to await
his promised better world
The next day dawns;
chill autumn breezes
brace his ashen skin
and blow pastel scraps
of cardboard
along sidewalks and gutters.
Somewhere,
a smiling face
is flushed
with triumph.
A voice made for radio & TV
proclaims
the advent
of that better world.
In the real world,
the man on the street
huddles against the cold,
feeding on the scraps
of yesterday’s promises,
awaiting the dawn of a tomorrow
just as cold
as yesterday.
