My suggested theme of the night did not get much feedback. My fault for submitting it later than normal. I will do better next time, as I don't intend on stopping. I ended up reading Crouton poems I wrote before and d just after the inauguration. The poem I wrote for last night was...decidedly different. Here it is.
Auden, Williams, Frost and Yeats
can not hope to win the battle royal.
Ginsberg is the surprise entry and favorite.
O'Hara is out early from too many cigarettes.
Lincoln is the main mike on commentary,
trying to keep trademark composure
while one patron, never failing to be present,
plays something on her old radio--a funeral dirge
from her favorite indie station. A background
of rain, falling sideways, adds to imposed ambiance.
The dead are rude enough to heckle her to the lobby.
Leaves blow in the aisles, settle into programs like keepsakes.
People enjoyed the dark match, Lesbian battling Mother Moon.
Too evenly match, draw is declared, as time limit was eternity.
No one would dare leave. Why are we locked in anyway?
The last match is a lame duck. The audience drawn in.
The president's special guest perch is empty. Maybe
he panicked at the ad copy: No one gets out alive.
It's hard to tell what words will trigger him.
He makes and breaks contracts with them often.
He would have been both guest of honor
and opening match: President versus Press.
Two heels squaring off in the first match.
No one would have cared who won.
|Short and sweet.|
Special thanks Chris Fitzgerald, Gawaine Ross, Deborah Priestly, Julia Carlson, Martha Boss, Erik Nelson and James Van Looy.