Reflections on the Loss of an Election

The parade passes on to another town.
I hum the bass line, fool among casual shoppers.
Lately interlaced and locked in beauty,
We are now, again, our lonely selves.

The parade passes on to another town.
Yet this is no time for sorrow.
This is time to find random sweets
Scattered about the dirty streets.
This is the time to plan
For another, bigger, parade,
Passing through the Benjamin gate
Next year, in Jerusalem.

-- Stephen K. Roney