The Candidate

I am in a cave.

I look out through a telescope and see thousands of people, dressed in white, red and blue. They follow a man holding a microphone. They walk through the mountains, into the desert, down the streets of the city as he shouts, "Change! Hope and change! I'll bring you change - just follow me!"

His pockets and bank coffer overflow with gold and promisory notes, but the followers don't notice; they sing and weep and cheer, their long blond hair, naturals and dreadlocks glistening in the sunshine.
"Change - I'm for change!" he yells, in his gray Armani suit, white linen shirt, sleeves rolled up to mid-forearm, red tie. A woman walks behind him, carrying a black parasol to protect him from the sun. Someone has a battery operated fan, a man holds a pitcher of ice water.
"We want change! That's what we'll tell the guys on K Street, that's what we'll say to the lobbyists!" They march as the sun fades, the sky turns dark blue, the stars peek out.

They break for the evening. The candidate is whisked away in a black limousine to a Five-star hotel: air conditioning, grilled swordfish, chilled white wine. The people sit in a field around a campfire. Six women make vegetable soup, pass it around in paper cups. A young boy brought napkins, his mother a guitar. They sing Bob Dylan and Bob Marley, laying on the cold grass or leaning against each other.

Daylight comes. They walk to a stream, wash, laugh, wish they could shower but 'change is more important than bathing' a man says. They walk in twos and threes, in rythym, to the town where the Candidate waits, today in a beige suit. He looks glossy and well-rested.

They go on.