PACK YOUR SHIT

Mr. President.
It's only been a month tomorrow
so you can't have much to take:
a bathrobe (maybe two);
a toothbrush (maybe two);
perhaps a thong.
You've already fucked-up
more shit than everyone
who came before you; you'll only
fuck-up more if you stay.
But take heart:
you've made the history books:
most fucked-up president ever.
That's what they'll say.
You'll be the one
they make comparisons to:
You think he's fucked-up? That ain't nothin. I was around when...
And you'll have your portrait; your windswept "do"
will be next to Lincoln Kennedy Washington Roosevelt
and your skinny scrunchy lips and beaver mean eyes
will frighten the shit out of school children
taking a tour with Melania who never noticed
you were even gone.

Norman Savage
Greenwich Village, 2017

MY LITTLE HOOKER

is down
in Clearwater.
I've not heard
from her
in a few weeks
and was worried.
Today,
she surfaced.
She was busy
as anyone would be
starting what they think,
and might be,
a new life:
getting her kid
in school,
and fixing up
a crib
so they can
have a home
for the first time
in years.
She knows
that soon
the rains will come,
even a hurricane
or two
or three
to fuck-up our best
plans, even dreams
we've had
from the time
we were old
enough to know
what dreams
were.

But beginnings,
no matter how exciting
always levels
out; we can't outrun
our own foxes.
But so the fuck what?
As long as we keep
ourselves in the game
we have a chance
maybe not much
of a chance
but we can't ask
for more.

I take some comfort
in knowing
I've done my part
in getting her out
and up; I gave her
a cigarette
when she really
really
needed one.

Norman Savage
Greenwich Village, 2014