The Politics of Poverty, by Amanda Jane Palling

Those who govern my state have to wait

Till my body sinks deep into rumpled cotton
(I am too lazy to iron the sheets).
Then tiny, aspiring tyrants inside
Get ready for Big Things to happen.

Parliamentarians, some 40 or 50,
Gather round to propound at length.
Infinitesimal fists fly or shake
There are drunken backslaps and brash huzzahs
(And sometimes sulking in front of the fire,
Because someone else came up with it first).

At dawn, they turn in – the bill drafted and sent
To be readied and placed on the back of my tongue,
Either neatly stacked and tied with fine ribbon
Or crumpled and covered in wine stains and blots.
But ready to tumble out when I wake
Shocked by the strange new shape and odd taste.