Hard Publics

Not their felon, not their lackey, you. 
After the sclerosis of your tissues, 
the emulsifying of your fluids, 
reprieve 
in as thick a prospect, a hand mitten. 

Abnormal hardening leaves you 
something of a corn husk, an heir apparent,
the block of the person behind you. 

Where everything gets slippery 
you’ll be astraddle your mores, the folkways
given stern and bow by people 
you have first deified and then 
in so warranted a fashion renounced. 

You told stories and did not think 
of the public—the hardest part. 
Not your sponsor, not your vehicle, them.