(A dying New Dealer looks askance at the changing of the guard) "All night the grating visions. Curled in my electric bed against the prating arias of wind I watch my country go tiptoe towards the whirl 5 .... The President's domineering, branded hip's unpinned by his eight typhooned, bleary years at the mast. Our older brother's younger rung squat-thrusts to the oarlock, lashed by the gold oar snapping from his grasp, spinning in quicksand... One Yalie summer nicknamed him, The Antidote. 10 Unplugged by my heavy coronary, I lay lapsed, small. A tongue-red heart comes bleating like a wart sawn-off in the intern's dish, anxious to clasp my held-out hand... The anesthetist drops his mask. Mailing in my vote I weep for America's wrong, unflagging heart 15 marooned like rescued Crusoe in the hospital."
From the collection "XXX Sonnets"
Written by Gregg Glory [Gregg G. Brown]
More information available on gregglory.com.