The muse visited as I was trying to sleep. I had little to do with it. It is.
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.