Kakistocracy
After school, on a Friday evening
thistle-bound road, pebbles squeaking underfoot,
we’d stop and yell down the empty well,
curses and cackles and snatches of song.
The words came back mangled, an alien
language, the speech of the dead
or at least, the buried. Crows
mocked us. Their descendants mock us
still, from the roof of the car park
as we slough down the tunnel to work,
footsteps echoing like an orchestra of bones
warming up in the pit.
Marc Pietrzykowski lives in and writes in Niagara County, NY, USA, famous for its Falls, its wine, and 1950s-style political corruption. The details of his own biography are pretty dull, nor does he take many photos of himself, or adapt well to familiar situations. He has published many poems, stories, and books. He shares things he finds interesting at www.marcpski.com.
