by Dale Goodson
it’s not there
gone
like that bright cab I couldn’t hail
gone gone
I’m watching television
but not happily
what quality I expected has vanished
fair and balanced have mutated
who am I supposed to vote for
why
I can’t vote for a stick
can’t vote for a mallet
what happened to the good soul
the pedestrian
the philosopher king
come on, Mr. Murrow
peep out
peep out and rub my stomach
like mom used to do
between poker hands
then- sir, madam
then
I’ll sleep soundly in the shady nook of our bathtub
under the faucet
above the drain
listening
listening
listening
later
I’ll pull the only lever left to me
Dale Goodson is a writer from Seattle currently living in New York City.
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