an ice cube wearing a tiny paper life jacket
is left in a saucer on an open windowsill
of a Palm Springs mansion
by a child's dark hands

somewhere

someone is without shoes
somewhere

someone hasn't eaten in 4 days
somewhere

someone lies dying for lack of medical funds

Meanwhile

the main anguish revolving around the zealous candidates is who groped who or who didn't ***** who, a comedian's tired shtick if ever there was one, all said with bitterly serious faces in this Great Election Year Mystery of The Groping Hands.

it's the uncertainty at the edges which flavors everything
the stalking on a tightrope
a life of ciphers amidst the grandeurs
wayward furrows in quaint directions
quiet shapes with open mouths
of crisis ad lost contentment
or do you see through your own eyes
a hidden yearning to meet the level ground?

A raindrop falls on
a sleeping bug who's jostled
quite flamboyantly.