James A. Campbell
I shall not forget this day….
the jaunt on icy streets
in the light of an ever fading November sun
to leave my dot of ink
and feed my judgment to the hungry machine
that counts and connects the dots to a new day.
Too long this damnable anxious night
like a stuffed head aching
and bowels churning
from an influenza of buffoonery,
this raw rash burning through the night
from an arrogance,
a cowboy insolence,
pitiful excuses and false hopes
of “mission accomplished”
uttered in cadence of
four garbled words
and a brain fart.
No ointment worked
to soothe the embarrassment of this man,
whose legacy is soon over.
You could feel it
standing in line.
This was not just any dot on the page day.
…civic duty with a yawn.
This was the day of “the mark.”
The sacrament of vote,
the communal sigh
of the fever breaking
in the echo of one once dreaming
for our children
from the steps of the Lincoln Memorial.
This is the day in the fading sun of winter
that I placed my dot on the swell of memory
of the long winter shared
with others waiting,
waiting to say, “yes we did…
yes we did.”