Columbia Descending

Call out the players of Souza horns,
and bring the bangers of big bass drums.
The quadrennial perpetration has begun.

Wake up him of Aaron’s trumpet blast.
Bid him break out his fife and play
a jingo tune in marching time.

All summer long coax him to listenwatch as
puffed up black cigars make big pretends
and shout out their hollow promises.

Then comes November the cruelest month
when disingenuous pledges have been made,
as the big cigars strut their final shams.

Into the sacred booth he’s drawn
to close the curtain, pull the lever,
and perform his consecrated rite.

Down into the deep abyss he goes
to the darkness of Pluto’s den
pleading her freedom one more time.

Then away they run, her limping
from the bite of last time’s
fatal serpent’s fang.

Up they come from the blackened hole
standing at the curtain looking out
ready to step forth with the truth.

The cigars shout, “Look Back!”
He turns and looks one last time
as Columbia vanishes back into the deep.

Then over again with four more years time
the epoch of flying paper fantasy goes on
to where be gives way to seem.