poem of the day 07.08.16

imagine paul ryan

in his d.c. office cum apartment

three miller lights into it

spit shinning his portrait of reagan for the third time

making the sign of the cross

a chunk of wisconsin cheese in his hand

after a hard day of obstructive legislative work

if only the democrats understood the benefits of privatization

that rubber-faced frown almost etched

into his face these days because of donald trump

sad blue puppy dog eyes

barbells at his feet, he looks into the mirror and says,

clinton, clinton, clinton

as if wishing a terminal disease away with words

eddie munster widow’s peak frayed

his tie slightly askew

the suit coat already on the back of his wooden chair

american flag pin button upside down on the lapel since lunch

but damn if mitch mcconnell would tell him so

paul, he shadow boxes obamacare

then slowly undresses in the sad sunset of a humid d.c. night

maybe there’s dead silence

or the sound of interns as they scatter down the hall

toward lobbyist banquets with all the free booze they can drink

maybe there’s a little hootie and the blowfish playing

to remind him of those old college days

when newt was all the rage

and his only thoughts were of jennifer aniston

or that chick in his poly sci class

man, it’s too solemn tonight for the ac/dc or the led zep

four black men dead in 48 hours

protests scattering across the nation

five cops killed in dallas by snipers

the NRA wondering when we’ll hand out guns to kids

on the first day of school to kind of stop this shit

and, of course, the brewers are in fourth place

his presumptive republican nominee

an orange-faced, baby-dicked

bigoted, sexist, xenophobic, anti-semite

and good christ that’s just the stuff he knows about

tired from the talkin’ email blues all day with the FBI

our kid slips on his aaron rodgers jersey

stares as his brett farve poster

and wonders what’s next for this fractured, violent america

paul sits in his favorite chair brought straight to the capital

from good ol’ janesville

thinks no on that fourth miller light

takes out his phone and stares at a picture

of him and mitt that time they went fishing

on the fourth of july

was 2012 really four years ago already?

but mitt won’t return his calls these days

fucking trump, paul says

then he calls janna, dear, sweet, reliable janna

but it always takes her three rings to pick up

something with the kids

something he’s missing in between the cracks

of his floundering political career and pushing that GOP agenda

and when the call goes to voice mail

he doesn’t even say hello

it’s me, it’s paul

but just starts crying into the void

tearing at his jersey

falling to the floor like a petulant child

paul somehow gets himself together

thinks what would ayn rand do

then whispers into his phone

oh janna

oh baby

i just wanna come home.