Tuesday, July 24, 2012

poem of the day 07.24.12

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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