The President

In a remote corner of the Republic

far from the burning capitol

under clouds the color of iron

a well-tailored suit

that tries to keeps the cuffs of its pants

from getting muddy

staggers across a snowy field

toward a forest.

Church bells in the distant village

and the sounds of peasants

sharpening their scythes and billhooks

are drowned out by a swarm of crows

who ridicule the suit because

it’s empty and all that’s left of its

former dignity are a few decomposing

medals pinned to its lapel.

© 2010 J.M. Keating

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