They were craving for more and wheeling for meaning. To open a place of their own. It might have lead to triumph, if they hadn’t wolfed all the accents: the flounderings and the groundlings. A round letter ate a flat, then a flat ate an accented, then one whispered, Viva the Revolution.
One held a banner under his chin. One played a flute in the corner. One practiced marching at night on the lawn. One was vain. One got the boot. One brushed his horse, ready for battle. One wrote love letters. One filed invoices. One memorized the Bill of Rights. One braided and unbraided their hair in the mirror. One dreamt of a brighter day of equality where all members would be free.
One fled.
They were all in-betweening, all careening and just believing, They were all lustfully-bleeding for an inn of their own. A claw-footed tub; a window seat with ruffles; a canopy bed, and of course a hot plate. Then, the meaning came a-wheeling. A feeling they were stealing, and then they were suddenly craving more.
They were ruthless and borrowed monies from the grocer. They paid bills at the bank, and scuffled in alleyways and side-streets. Their knife-fights were calculated and contrived.
Blood was spilled. It stank. It stank bad and badly stank. They could smell their time was coming. They could feel its cool hand at their door. They wanted to be inviting and humble and kind. They wanted a guest. They needed a guest. They put an ad in the Town Crier. They taped signs to lamp posts, to school buses, and to dogs. They sent carrier pigeons.
They did not discriminate against other variables. They replaced and painted the gutter. They hung a sign. When the TAX ID came, they felt justified and justiced and justly appointed as bearers of the night.
© Umansky 2012
blog of poet, leah umansky 
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