One of these men will have his finger on her button.
She dips a sensor into a bag of Doritos and closes
her shocking eyes, massages the remote: mute
on, mute off, mute on. This man is lying. This man
hasn’t read a novel for four years. She can
relate. This man’s face is made from fluoro silicone
rubber, slick under studio lighting. She guesses he needs
an oil change. She can relate. This man wears
a He-Man t-shirt in bed. He carries a Thundercats lunchbox.
He makes his own sandwiches. He does not choose
his own tie. This man cannot look at a gun without weeping.
This man is a whore. This man’s teeth are crawling
with nanobots. They shine like a row of white crosses.
Like fallout. The drone folds and unfolds her absentee ballot.
Harry Giles
poemsinwhich.wordpress.com 