The potentates are marching from St. Paul,
Wearing the hats they stole from desert kings,
More of them stuffed inside a tiny car
Than Billy has Spaghetti-Os. The nurse
Flaunts her prosthetic sword, says Opioids,
And all fall down. In wheezing lungs, shaved heads,
And intubated families they fail
Of faith. The potentates ride in, clean up
The tarnished town, a sink of billyclubs
And graft, and scrub the spangled bedroom doors--
They manage with panache and housemaid’s knees.
The little children smile and pack their bags
And hide under the porch until the bus,
The friendly yellow bus with plastic seats,
Opens its doors and swears it is today.