I did not ask
to be political.
I was made for other things—
the back of a freezer,
a silver spoon,
a quiet afternoon.
But first, the speech.
I waited in the cooler
through all of it—
the credentials,
the gratitude,
the vision for the community,
the applause that was also
a kind of queue.
Then the actual queue.
People had organised this.
Vests. Lanyards. Clipboards.
A system
for the distribution
of happiness.
She holds me out.
They take me.
They know what this is.
They have always known
what this is.
They stood in the queue anyway
because I am cold
and it is Saturday
and the speech is finally over
and I am
the only honest thing
that happened today—
no credentials,
no vision,
no QR code.
Just sweet.
Just cold.
Just this.
For a moment
her smile and their smiles
are the same smile.
I did that.
Not the card.
Not the speech.
Not the lanyards.
Me.
I am eaten quickly.
I am always eaten quickly.
And when I am gone
so is the moment—
she is the card again,
they are strangers again,
and somewhere in a landfill
the card that summoned me
is still explaining
why she deserved
to hand me out.