#poetry To the bi-pol-aureate

push me against that old brick wall
the firm hand you lean into my shoulder with
the fast hand you redirect my hair by
the eye-yize that do every all else
the sun its does not care brilliance
politics and topographics---what!?
and i will drop these roses i picked for you
and i will right there be the love
they grew by and for
so shut your golden mouth, mr. collins