Tight turn right turn left – navigate by
Mars or Venus embedded in August’
dome of night – don’t need a moral
compass to find the tavern where
I linger, elbow for a spot
beside an obtuse man canting over
the bar. His elbow jabs back as I rock
toward the fog – shaved ice and a jigger,
Canadian Club, vermouth, and bitters.
He tells a lawyer lightbulb joke – how many
can you afford – and rants he’ll make
a 180-switch – parties or positions –
to land on the winning team. I consider
my next move – to play an angle and avoid
plain sight or commit to a candidate.
The floor’s wood is slick, the wall’s American
flag framed and lit, whiskey bottles sweat,
reflect encrypted features – not much rhyme
but there’s still belief to be internalized.
My mindful rabbi whispers – drop
the filibuster in the chamber’s pot,
resign from the race. Chants of Namaste
resonate under the dome on the Hill.
Ellen Sazzman -
Originally Appeared in District Lines, Volume IV