By Howard Fergus
You can tell it is election season
not because a cold wind blows
or headaches hit you from a hotter sun.
You see men in huddles sweating
under a dry tree loud with leaves,
women on rare occasions, dispensing
one-line testimonials, one voice
raised above the rest like a descant
pitched in baritone; another speaks
hush hush like soft walker shoes
since you don’t know who will win
and long grass and lianas texting news;
so you digest your views in silence
like a ruminating ox but you know
deep in your throat, dat neaga man
nah get yuh vote. You looking
for people of pedigree, not them
from back a yard just like me.
You can tell it is election season,
time to suspend the rules of reason.
Sent from my iPad
