untitled

you

were the very end

of my parade.

the soiled ticker-tape

and burst balloon

flaccidly pulling at

loosened ropes.

pooled hydraulic fluid

from a leaking, curbside

low-riding car.

you

were the broom

and cinch-sacks

of a reverie-less

crowd of

domestic illegals

making

an hourly stab

at their version

of the dream.

(c)jim hill (2-9-11)