‘Don’t ask me’ the wind whispers,
and when you check with
the middle-aged skater
next door, you can’t be
heard over road-rage and the dark
pulse of stadia. You forget
your shopping in a lyric
flourish: presidential
hopefuls—shifting in their
blue and red stables—can’t shape
late talk to fit a dreaming-space.
Among a harvest of fanatics, clever heads
on panels won’t stop.
