The politician roared,

His lips swollen with alphabet soup.

Adherents heard him say, “Challenge,” though their feet burned on the infernal asphalt and their razor gazes slashed this three-piece suit on a sizzling stage.

They smelled his smoky words, tasting them like passing perfume in an elevator, stale and repellant.

“I am Sir Ellwin Darwin of Pointless Promontory, outside the state of Michigan, and I am here to fleece you of your vote.”

The crowd cheered and dared him to shed his swimsuit.

But he only whispered, “I never wanted to be here. It just ended up that way.”

The crowd discombobulated, their spirits rising once the brainstorm rushed in.

One mother gave her tiny son the peace-out sign, while a bystander heard her say, “You know what that means.”

And all I could make of it was the throttling gurgle of love—a peace sign, wrapped in a finger-shaped heart, a violent cry for help.

Then the mouther of promises levitated above the crowd, and Piggy was not impressed. She, leader of the church of disbelief, set her cup down and knew the ending: they will return to earth but never be grounded, like a hydrogen barge out to sea.

I’d give them my lunch money if I didn’t have to walk to school. Mais, alas, en fin, je ne sais quoi—politics and me never broke bread on a Sunday morning. Yeast lies, as untrustworthy as a sunken balloon.

And yet, here we are, you, me, the shouting floater, mother, child, neighbor, and countrymen, sweltering under the weight or wordlessness, a nightmare history will look back on in astonishment and then repeat itself.