Mourning Joe
Hey Iran, you have exactly 300 days left to push a US president around. Enjoy it while you can. After that, there will be hell to pay.
He’s never thought
of himself as anything but a vessel for
the true sensibilities of the rich and poor
alike; he’s not
one to worry
about the particulars; let the news-
papers fret like little priests; in the pews
the people—sorry,
the real people:
they value simple common sense above
the effetely weak-kneed truth of things; they love
strength, hate evil.
So what if we began
the war, transgressed a border, armed both sides
against each other? The principle that guides
him: a man
must be a lion:
he wakes and knows exactly what he wants
for breakfast. “Consuela, two croissants!”
She’s Uruguayan,
maybe, legal
though, he’s almost sure. His car and driver
take him straight to the station. A survivor,
like an eagle
who’s come back,
no thanks, whatever you’ve heard, to regulation,
from a brush with what the dweebs would call extinction:
attack, attack—
he learned it on the last
if unopposed, campaign: never concede
a point—that’s what it really means to lead:
no brake; all gas.
