Apt Poem & Back Soon

I'll be off-blog for the rest of the week. We're intending, if enthusiasm survives, to go peeping at autumn leaves in some nearby areas before they all, finally, descend. Should enthusiasm not survive, I shall content myself by contemplating my own navel for a day or two.

Here's a rather apt poem for right now, by John Haines (more on him here).

The Last Election

Suppose there are no returns,
and the candidates, one
by one, drop off in the polls,
as the voters turn away,
each to his inner persuasion.

The front-runners, the dark horses,
begin to look elsewhere,
and even the President admits
he has nothing new to say;
it is best to be silent now.

No more conventions, no donors,
no more hats in the ring;
no ghost-written speeches,
no promises we always knew
were never meant to be kept.

And something like the truth,
or what we knew by that name –
that for which no corporate
sponsor was ever offered –
takes hold of the public mind.

Each subdued and thoughtful
citizen closes his door, turns
off the news. He opens a book,
speaks quietly to his children,
begins to live once more.