If I Were Mayor
If I were mayor, I would draft an ordinance
making you my only citizen,
and I would appreciate you so much
that I would never tax you,
and I would let you ride around town
in the fire truck, sirens on.
I would make sure the diner downtown
had a ham sandwich named after you,
and every weekend
there would be a parade in your honor,
and you would ride on the back
of an old DeSoto convertible and wave.
But the car would have to drive itself
because I would be marching alongside,
banging a big drum or showing off
on horseback while doing rope tricks
and playing the harmonica.
At dusk, I would play
the You Spangled Banner
on my trumpet
and, at nightfall,
I would launch fireworks into the sky.
And we would sit there together
for hours, holding hands
and sipping mojitos
in rocking chairs
on the porch of an old mansion,
as the bunting rustles in the gentle breeze
and the fireflies come out to mate.
And you, having been properly honored,
would tell me you love me,
lighting a fire in me that would burn
so bright God himself
would be forced to wear shades
as he sits in his lawn chair and smiles,
having very much enjoyed our show.