Ken's Poetry

Prescot

A Politician

She painted her face with a smile
did tricks with her hair with colour and guile,
pulled herself in like a tight racing car.

I tripped on her trap, walked on a spring,
on tottering stilts high over the ring,
puffed myself out with the air of deceit.

But we fell in the dust under blinding white light,
doors dropped off the car to the crowds roared delight,
trapped in a ring in the throat of a tent.

I saw dust in the cracks
in her hot painted face:
moment of pleasure
lifetime’s disgrace.