It’s Christmas! Where is everybody going?
Reality celebrates the victory,
poetry mourns the loss.
Poetry is better
but reality’s the boss.
We don’t care how we won, we won!
We give it a name: Lexington.
We pursue ghosts.
We write the word: Washington.
Now the rocks are moved. We form a chain.
We build churches.
Slippers dance on Rosewood lane.
Papers and followers are enshrined.
Life has meaning and purpose.
Gold rock and black rivers are mined.
The poet saw through the whole charade.
He was literal. And unkind.
He wrote of sorrowful things.
He hinted presidents were still kings
or made by kings. He said sorrow
would be the price of our ignorance tomorrow.
The poet laughed. The poet knew
his sorrow was going to ruin you.