My Pundit and I

The pundit escorts me home on a wintry grey February day,
A long traverse across the shapeless hours and my billowing dress is decorated with bobble heads.
He is not cornered to deliver a certain verdict; his lapel has a pin attached that is glued with down feathers and a pine cone.
We tarry too long, on the corner by the parking lot – my clove hanging out my mouth and grit between my teeth.
The learned pass by on a school bus; the information crammed in their brains resembles regurgitated gut.
The pundit and I whoop and holler but nothing can be heard by the cloned scholars.

We faintly whisper to each other, between the cusps of our molars – that there is a coffee shop across the street with girls inside that drive Range Rovers.
We scurry across the street, interlinking our feet and gaily rejoicing by kicking the pebbles from the degenerative tar.
Peering through the window, we can’t see much, just prostates, and idealism and closed thinking fascism.
I grab the pundits woolen hand and intertwine my arms with in his sleeve… it’s cold outside and our knees may freeze but together we’ll walk, against the breeze, if that means we stand for what we believe.