Cigar

featured in Rumsfeld’s Sandbox

Drawn out deep,
like the upward concerns
of an intern. Captains delight
in late night fatties, blue skies
dressed in vanilla, and star-
crossed lips ladled with love stains.
Free soil built this land. Death

may dance in the sun
but I’m taxed. Hand me a bill
of sale, this whore has the whole
damned country by the balls.
The king may know his legacy,
but where are his clothes, mind you?

The Right Wing spins
a new face while the Party
reminisces and the world
is made safe. For

democracy
is a costly business,
liberty a puff of smoke
in a courtroom.

Battlefield worms like us
seek security in slow-poppin’ cherries
and close calls,

rockets red glaring past our bedtimes.
I’m fed the hell up with Hillians casting lots,
forgetting to shed light
on this year’s stale,
burned-out
two-party topic.

first published in The New Verse News