Brothers in Election Year

  by Kevin Miller


That’s a pin, not a revolution,
a thing for your lapel, a gift 
for a donation, not a heart-racing 
chase under wire packing
a pocketful of correspondence.
You risk nothing, save face. 
Kiss me, Soldier, on each cheek
without regard for allegiance,
whisper what you know, free
your imaginary prisoners.  
Raise your holy book overhead, 
hail the next taxi, find the woman 
near the fountain who holds the cards 
on contrition, ask her to show you 
the place to throw the coins and wish.