Feb

3

A Meeting on the Seventeenth Floor to Discuss Among Other Things, Strategies in the Upcoming

A Meeting on the Seventeenth Floor to Discuss
Among Other Things, Strategies in the Upcoming

Before smarmy smile she flicks thrasonical ash
grown longer than its mother
of pearl holder. Besotted stepson
waits for his ride below, smoking pot on hot asphalt, scowling
insolent, nothing in his life to his fault, impatient to unload his sack
of stones, crafty indolent, loves the thrill of throwing
an anonymous rock or two, maybe wave a banner,
be a snarky presence on the corner. No doubt
she’s on his side in the tank, but she takes so long, she is so slow.
Her butt down to its nub, thrumming fingernails sore
from chewing and stained amber deeper
than blond oak table top, thinking not of
janitors, more numb, somewhere below the surface,
something about how FDR…
the great man died on the day she was born…
(He played us at Pearl the way Uncle Joe played him.)
Always shot from the right,
his holder clenched between teeth in barmecidal grimace,
some called a grin under crumpled fedora,
beyond measure a man to behold,
that told us something visceral talking
policy was blind to…. orderly breadlines belie occurring
acts of violence the likes of Dillinger or Capone….
she waddles to the center of the floor where
clearing her sore throat
to gloze the record of that day and certain facts
she begins to recount myths thrasonical about how
it was in days before…days she did not witness
but which make it clear to her what is
meet for us to discuss today,
this day, with all of its raveled drama about election,
this barmy day an aceldama where
wild goats go to bray
and she there to join them, her two cents a buck.
All the while her stepson sits and waits on the tailgate of her truck.

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