The Mayor #54 of 365 Poems

That drunken bottle brink Maverick;
Who, some called ‘The Mayor’.

In a Town in the middle of nowhere,
a nowhere with a bustling past

He sat in an old wooden chair
with brandy in a tin cup.

The rush from past always crowded the streets
in his half awake memories.

‘Mayor’, they say as they pass him
Mayor of deserted dreams searching for their way home.

Mayor of a shattered piece of earth,
Mayor of the images lost in an upside down mirror.

But don’t worry
Because you don’t have to worry anymore.

Last week was his funeral.
And today they have an election.

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