Partisan Box Step

Partisan Box Step

written by: Shelly Norris

We have so much room for improvement: One key problem is all politicians do is talk.
I call Washington city of the perishable: Good people don’t go into government.
I think we agree: We’ve not gotten credit. I think we agree: It’s a disgrace, such a disgrace.
We did not regress to failed policies of the past: I will end the special interest monopolies.
Truth has been withheld from the people: I apologize if I’m wrong; I’m never wrong.
I think we agree: We’ve not gotten credit. I think we agree: It’s a disgrace, such a disgrace.

We are fighting for the middle class: We need a tremendous, tremendous president.
Every aspect must be subjected to scrutiny: One with tremendous smarts, cunning, stamina.
We agree: If you don’t vote, you don’t count. We agree: I’m a bit of a P.T. Barnum.
Every aspect subjected to accountability: I think of myself as a tremendous underdog.
For the American Dream! For freedom: We will make America tremendously strong again!
We agree: If you don’t vote, you don’t count. We agree: I’m a bit of a P.T. Barnum.

Bipartisanship is nice and all: Make America proud again, safe again, great again!
But it can’t substitute for action: Do you mind if I step back? Because your breath . . .
Nothing in my world ever surprises me: . . . your breath is really, really, very, very bad.
Its absence prevents us moving forward: No dream too big, no challenge too great!
I only make appointments to bipartisan committees: No future beyond our reach!
Nothing in my world ever surprises me: . . . your breath is really, really, very, very bad.

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Shelly Norris

Shelly Norris currently resides in the woods of central Missouri with her husband John, two dogs, and seven cats. A Wyoming native, Norris began writing poetry around the age of 12. As a single mother of three sons, Norris had to concentrate on achieving an education and beginning a career to sufficiently support the family. Early in this journey it became clear that pennies from publishing poetry would not feed and shod hungry barefoot boys, so she necessarily dedicated her time and energy to building a teaching career. Meanwhile, working in the shadows grading sub-par essays, and editing for other writers, she has been slow to send forth her own writings into the cold world of rejection and possible publication in obscure volumes. One who struggled furiously with the art-life balance, Norris knew her destiny to be—like Burroughs, Bukowski, Stevens, and Wilder—a more dedicated and widely published writer later in life. While pecking away at various essays, short stories, and a couple of novels, Norris is wrestling a pile of about 100 poems into cohesive chapbooks and manuscripts embodying the vicissitudes of unrequited love and loss, dysfunctional wounds, healing quests, and the role of cats in the universal scheme.

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