Solzhenitsyn Skis Mad River

Archipelagos
of decadent blue moguls
force me to labor.

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Dear Life

Pushing Sister Pat
down the wheelchair ramp so fast
made even God smile.

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Hush

Tilting their black heads
two crows in a copper beech
spy on our green yard.

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Pocket Garden

Under the maples
an army of mayapples
marches through violets.

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Inches

Inching past the lynching
I sucked it up
turned away and
hugged a rocky wall.

I chose to console the living,
clutch my young red badge
and crawl.

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I Was Mr. Trump’s Urologist

Even at half-mast
his veins stuck out like cables
on the Brooklyn Bridge.

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I Seemed to Be Happier Then

It seems a long stretch
for this tired old bloke
since I last kicked my heels up
or let alone spoke.

Tomorrow I’ll locate
scrawny children in tatters!
I hear what you give
is what really matters.

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The Battle That Was Against Me

In one of those moments
when a world gives way,
a street vendor of ice
becomes vice-president,
the marginal are exalted
and the rigid and the humorless
shun old traditions.
You can’t build a country
in a culture of fear, I saw,
or find solace
in the ranks of the despised.

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The Gift

Cut off in the dunes without bread
without meat
I never thought history
would turn this way,
that a Rhode Islander would assume the Presidency
of our Nation.

There was a time
when quahogs from the salt flats
were the only sustenance
for me and my fighters.

Now I share my bold delight
to learn my former nemesis
has watched my inauguration
from a prison cell in Job Lot,
his foul soul steaming.

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Last Legs

Will death come lick my face today
or scratch my shin in Zeta’s way?
Or lay two legs across my lap,
or signal with an elbow tap?

Will death be hungry, underfed
or want to climb into my bed?
Will I just growl “Leave me alone”
or show my love and throw a bone.

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