welsh pub, sunday
afternoon
the guy sitting next to me
looks a little bit like the last president
only he has a moustache
he’s a good old boy though
in his stained white t-shirt and shorts
sucking aluminum bottles of bud light
while shouting invective
at the mets game on television
he can’t be the last president, i reason
that nut gave up the drinking and carousing years ago
found god and war for all of us
and set the national dial back fifty years
what would he be doing in no man’s land brooklyn
on a boring sunday afternoon?
watching the mets no less
but i’ll be damned if it isn’t him
that same wave of stiff gray hair
those clueless, squinty eyes peering at the idiot box
maybe if i played hail to the chief on the juke
he’d come to
drop the everyman act and stiffen
his sense of duty in these trying times
overwhelming his being incognito
or maybe he’d at least buy a round
but why take the chance?
there’s no point in get him all worked up
it never ends well when he gets nuts
plus i have a wallet full of money
so i don’t need his charity
if it is ol’ dubya isn’t he better off in this joint
where he can’t do any more damage to the country
than he’s already done?
two wars that are still raging
recession and debt that have lingered
the federal ban on assault weapons ending
under his watch
and another shooting on another american weekend
taking up the national consciousness
i think it’s best to just let him drink
the poor guy is probably racked with guilt
going a bit heavy on the conscience
but then one of the mets hits a single
mr. president screams
shoots down the rest of his beer
in one gulp
he shakes his bottle at the bored bartender
and says, hey sweetshit, how about another?
and i know
that he’s just as clueless
about this country
as he’s always been.
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