Service by Ed Stone

I am not a silent poet

The pageant 

executed by the old guard 

is flawless 

the float of children’s 

photographs passes neatly 

under the slice 

of the flag 

all heads are pasted 

back exactly as 

numbers correspond 

smiling secretaries 

efficiently file 

the numbers away 

enuch waiters 

wearing white 

asbestos uniforms 

bear the photographs 

on burning breakfast 

trays to the hungry 

President. 

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