The Elections are Punctual.

The world
has not entered a new chapter.
It has remembered
an old one.

Power has changed clothes.
This season: cruelty in neutral tones.

Someone is always explaining
why this is not the same
as last time.

The clever say polycrisis.
The tired say it was always like this.
The young say nothing.
They film the credits.

The satire writers are on leave.
They say it is a conflict of interest.

Under a drone-lit sky,
a hospital becomes a crater
marked regrettable.

The old horror dressed well.
It carved awe into façades.
These now arrive
in suits that do not fit –
cuff links against subpoenas,
shuffling between rallies
and kitsch palaces.

The hats are gone.
They wear caps now –
branded,
authority as merch.
The stitching already frays at the brim.

The speeches stumble,
recited by faces
too tanned for terror,
too blank for memory.

Blonde mouthpieces are dutiful –
jaws set to default smile.
They mispronounce countries
already burning.

The holy men arrive too –
clean-shaven, white-shirted.
Obedience as insurance.
They nod toward heaven
and price legitimacy as service.

There are still elections.
They are punctual.
The winners praise tradition.
The losers thank the winners
for the opportunity.

No tyrant calls himself one.
No party calls itself extreme.

And still the air thickens
at the checkpoint.
And still the silence learns
to kneel.

Meanwhile, the planet
is politely preparing
to dissolve the question entirely.

The world
has not scripted a new chapter.
It has revamped
an old one.

The arc of history is long
and it bends
toward
real estate.

The contract is signed.
The water is listed.
The shade, leased.

You should have bought sooner.