The Mayor has polished his horns with gold
flaked stain. It has gotten to the point that
he mostly celebrates the low turnouts. These
parades have left streamers like ribbons

torn on the telephone lines and branches.
Peanut shells have been taken by the birds
to build gates around their nests. Another parade
comes through tomorrow. Stray dogs drag limbs

from the river once the mustard’s out. I remember
when I was small a woman in a blue apron
tucked me under when a horse was spooked
by a father gathering candy corn, taffy

and spools of twine, some buttons
and a spittoon. The loot was slight.
Another parade and these streets
will cave away. Telephone poles will tip

onto the tubas, women, children and stock
tripping the mules and fanfare. The Mayor
has no idea. The river is blocked.
All the criminals in town are awake.