The muse visited as I was trying to sleep. I had little to do with it. It is.
2/5/2017
The New
Ozymandias
by Nancy A. Bekofske
Mr President, turn
away from Twitter. Turn off the news.
Call your wife. Ask
how her day was. Ask if she is lonely.
Rouse your son from
his sleep. Imagine his cherubic, solemn face.
Tell him you love
him.
Tell him you are
working to make the world better, for him.
Imagine his pride
when he tells his grandchildren.
They will board the
yacht and sail over salt water.
They will go up the
streets of New York to Trump Tower
and marvel. Can such
greatness be forgotten?
The tower will rise
from the sea into clear air.
The gulls will soar
and dip overhead in the sun.
Once, he will tell
them, we lived here.
Once, he will say,
there were streets filled with yellow cars
and people walking
with somewhere to go
with work and love
and mystery intertwined in their hearts.
They will sail back
to land, pondering these things.
Why did the sea
come, grandfather, they will inquire.
Their childish
voices will float in the wind like ashes.
He will not answer.
How can a man
explain?
Call your son, Mr.
President.
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