I sit at my desk, the sun beaming in
Across the pasture where I walk
My dogs in the afternoon and
I stumble across a CNN news headline
That we’d all been waiting for, for like,
Way too long – like, how did this take
This long? —- Like, what? —–
And after I finish my morning coffee,
My mind packs its bags, throws on a coat, and boards
A flight to New York City and joins the investigators
Rummaging around the house of the former mayor
Turned suspect – and I suspect what I’ll find in
This house is going to be not quite as poetic
As the geese landing in the marsh next to the birch groves
Where I left my dog after our walk, so he’d finally poop, dammit.
On the large oaken front door is engraved a pair of female breasts.
Underneath, in gold, is inscribed in Latin, what translates to
“Knock on the knockers hehehehe.”
On the coffee table, there’s a half-eaten bowl of Progresso
Low-sodium chicken soup, with nine cigar butts
Stubbed out in it, the tops all darkened wet, and heavily chewed,
Like they had been either smoked by a nervous man,
Or attacked by a bunch of frenzied ducks.
In the fridge, there’s an old carton of milk, curdling
Along with seventeen old takeout boxes of pasta,
All of differing ages and stages of decay.
Most looked like ravioli with pork bolognese, but who’s to say.
In the bathroom was no toothpaste, nor toothbrush.
Just a bottle of motor oil
With a Post-It note on the label –
“good hair sticky stuff… doesn’t melt under TV cameras.”
On the office desk was a pile of cassette tapes
Labeled “Definitely Not Underage Girl Stuff,”
And also a Rolodex labeled,
“Definitely Not Hookers.”
And in the bedroom, well,
Even though this was a make-believe field trip
I still didn’t have the stomach
To go in that guy’s bedroom.
