Thursday, December 22, 2016

If Hilary Calls ...

I sit, my phone
between my legs
on vibrate so I moan
a little, and clutch
the wheel tighter
to steer
California’s pavements
hoping Hilary Clinton will call.

She never
asks for advice,
not from me,
and my
commando thighs.

We hope, my testicles and I,
for naked questions
on common sense
and public weal,
but when cells buzz,
a zigzag fantasy
swirls incestuous
tones across
my cousin’s voice.

Hilary will not call,
but there is the phone,
waiting patiently to buzz
against my scotum,
announcing scandal
and technological doom
with a gratifying hum.


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