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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