by Judith Terzi
He's signed the papers;
the house is theirs.
Cartons line rooms.
The lamps are finally lit.
The girls are running down halls
in Hannah Montana pajamas.
Grandma and Michelle have changed
into red flannel robes.
They're fussing with the pillowcases,
arranging, rearranging
the girls' comforters.
Barack is brushing his perfect teeth;
he'll floss tomorrow.
It's the year of the ox.
He's pulling eight loads
of endangered country
from midnight to dawn.
Judith Terzi spent most of her life teaching high school French language and literature. Her poetry has recently appeared in Broken Bridge Review, Eucalypt, Ginosko, Picayune, The Pedestal Magazine and Raving Dove. She lives in Pasadena, CA.
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