when I hear poli-tics
I feel the bite of a tiny bug
which when it gets a fix
on heat of blood, it
preps its springy legs
which then flick
it to a clueless host
upon which it sticks
sucking under radar
under clumps of hair
under an arm where
its little barbed proboscis grips
studiously away from light
until (now a bloated
blood balloon) it’s had its fill
and so pulls back
its hungry hose and quits
its parasitic stay
(by which it’s famous)
richer now by far than when selected
by the God of lower orders

to make us bleed
to make us sick
to make us poor:
to lame us