Tuesday, October 07, 2008
As the hour for debating arrives,
As I sit at home on the gray sofa,
I want poetry, as I read Frank
O'Hara. And think about the emptiness
Of so much that occupies life. The
Emptiness of quarreling, of money, of growing old.
The emptiness of death on the beach,
On Fire Island, at night, O'Hara at forty
Killed by a jeep. The plunge
Of the financial world, vast beyond
Understanding. Until the notice comes and
We are all laid off. Depression. Emptiness.
As the debate comes, I think,
I want to be The Obama Poet.
I want to celebrate the Half-black Barack:
President of America. Then, I recall his birthplace,
Recall how joyous spring was there,
So much so, I nearly drowned in its plenitude,
There beneath the fall.