by Tom Davy
“There’ll be hell toupee”
We joked eight months ago in May
While remarking on the putrid tan
That could orange the seven seas.
And we were laughing to the end,
Drinking and laughing, watching
A map become increasingly red in the face.
“It’s alright, we only need Florida”
With another swig of optimism and, oh,
So we’ll move on to the next one:
She only needs this,
She only needs that,
And suddenly the only thing we need
Is a stiff drink and each other.
There’s a comedy in tragedy
But the joke is getting old
And the tweets are getting old
And we’ll be four years older
By the time the punchline hits,
By the time the laughs are spent up
On pent up angry people
Doing angry things.
And we’ll keep talking
The same headline herding talk
That penned him into our homes,
Wounded and smudged with ink
Until, dried up, the well recedes
And refills for more.