Foggy Bottom To Get New Pizzeria

in Prose Poems

It’s Mr. Trump. Or, The President said/did …thusly; Never, President Trump.

That’s the sleight of hand salutation conjured in the Imperial Swamp of Potomac pushback to the imminent arrival of the benighted provincial who’s true provenance be Queens.

The welcome burrows, is a bit bitchy, and mean if less spirited than a Madison Avenue, “It’s The Real Thing.” And for the best, I guess, as no one wants to teach the world to sing in counterpoint to Beltway commons harmony.

Honey, I tell ya, he’s gonna make America great again. Coarse chorus enough.

A rough recent refrain from our new revanchist hymnal. Pithy Praise. As need be.

As they’ve taken to running the entirety of the Western World in a three day week, escaping that swamp to return to the meek and righteously be, “Present At Creation” of that new Kwik-E-Mart opening down on Maple Street.

I’m spry yet retired. I reside in the inner city of a major metropolitan area of the United States. I read politics. I watch baseball. I hum along with the tune. I June swoon, and moon the bad poem. Post here, are old and new. Opinions are my very own, except when wrong.

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