Checking their watches by the radium glow,
three dogs salivate same time each night.
Pavlov rings them up with news.
Pound is down. Old bones in Sahara found.
Ears perk. Tails wag. Notes are taken,
lab coats washed and dried. "We tried,"
say the working hounds, knowing humans
respond well to their deliberate behavior.
"But our mouths are dry," they growl,
and ring the bell for water.
My mother’s ebony chopsticks are not in storage.
My George Mikan doll is in storage.
My little basketball plaything that was so complete,
Even to the elastic strap on his teeny safety glasses.
I used to chuck George across the den to my dog, Pan,
Who always licked at Uncle Ed’s shoes.
Uncle Ed had cordovans coated glassy with doggie saliva.
He’d smoke Camels without polish and sit awake
All night hollering, "Bring back Fred Allen!"
Mother loved Uncle Ed like a brother.
She used to say, "If my ebony chopsticks were not
In storage, we could have a real oriental fling."
Uncle Ed was busy picking smoke scraps off his tongue.
Pan knew the score. He saw me kissing
That long-legged doll in the bathroom mirror.
My mother’s ebony chopsticks are not in storage.
No more than my father’s ashes are in that rusty urn
On the mantle near the plaid stamps and the cuff links.
Numerical questions posit
alphabetical answers.
A second hand imposes
sudden death rules.
Best then to accept ties
and play again tomorrow.
There’s no refuge any more
unless your home’s a tower.
The elite just won this war.
Rich folks have the power.
Corporate tax gifts handed out
by Republicans no doubt
help the wealthy, hurt the poor.
Medicare may be no more.
Billionaires who own estates
dance now behind golden gates.
Middle class will take the hit.
Merry Christmas. Eat some shit.
Deficit receives a load
youth will pay for down the road.
They’ll drill in the arctic, too;
soon be eating caribou.
Say goodbye to wildlife parks.
Load endangered onto arks.
Country can’t be great again
when the greedy always win.
Ruling classes don’t play fair.
One percent’s their only care.
Kleptocrats have just one fear:
angry voters come next year.
Rise up, O ye "lower classes."
Throw these thieves out on their asses.
The eggs of infinity
hatch and roll, downhill,
to the season of their choice,
where they are boiled
in an era of reality,
salted heavily in tears,
and served up to the thieves
out in the undergrowth,
who sell ’em back to God,
who never sees ’em.