Considering The Moderate

The way he stood,
schoolteacher
with a sharp agenda
up his ass.  

The way he smiled,
broken gray spoke
in an old wagon wheel
on the roadside.

The way he spoke,
a butter-tongued dance
of slick and smooth
couching a dagger.

The words he used:
some benign on their own;
some with their own
long poisonous tails
.

The way the air smelled afterward:
gentle, fragrant, warm; ashen
from countless bonfires,
house fires, church fires, and pyres.

About Tony Brown

A poet with a history in slam, lots of publications; my personal poetry and a little bit of daily life and opinions. Read the page called "About..." for the details. View all posts by Tony Brown

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