The Poet’s Week in Retrospect, A Poem for These Eventful Times

The Poet’s Week in Retrospect


Sometimes the wake-up call is a tsunami,

roaring over loose thoughts like a towering wave,

or the truth tugging at a pony tail, the briefest nibble

soon tresses caught in a killer whale bite shooting

through the Sea World Pool of Audience Screams.


Don’t give up until you see the whites of the Republicans’ eyes

glazing over the latest greatest version of the Health Care Plan,

which extends “Life,” while curbing “Liberty” and changing

the “Pursuit of Happiness” to an exhausting search for a doctor who will

accept a chicken in barter for an office visit, or some other

nominal fee for all those years of medical school, Hippocratic

Oath turned on its ear for a pittance now, shudda went to

law school instead, the Lawyer’s Oath is “First do no harm

to the lawyer’s pocket,” a philosophy financially aligned

with the Politician’s Creed, to “make hay while the sun shines,

or until the other party rules.” 


Now Budgetary Reconciliation looms, a term worthy of the most

austere Puritanical charm, as Democrats pull a legislative fast one

designed to vote in a Donkey- endorsed Health Care Plan,

without Republican accord, much like Prohibition got voted in,

years later, luckily repealed, liquor soon to become the cheapest

and most effective medicine for whatever ails ya, while you wait

and wait and wait for a doctor’s appointment under the new Health

Care Plan, or die beforehand, drugged and oblivious to the end,

like all good American citizens beloved by Democratic denizens

who only want what’s best for the US economy.


Of course all these pinnacles of public heroes–

the doctor, lawyer, and government man,

fall way short, compared to the average Omaha policeman,

who earns double his pay after retiring,

thanks to a union making strange bedfellows of prosperous

ex-cops and the over-taxed citizens, while the bedsprings of

the city’s rusty  infrastructure groan, near collapse.


Potholes on the streets widen like the economy’s maw,

tires chewed and spines beaten, all nature’s machinations

portending an early spring, or shot springs, one before the other,

the city’s street crews labor with shovels of hot-brewed asphalt,

depositing temporary pothole fills until the real work begins,

sun shining, grass greening, every driver’s best great weather dream

marred by traffic cones, one-lanes, and multiple construction zones

lengthening every roadway journey two-three-or fivefold the time

required to safely navigate to any recreational nirvana,

oasis of fun, crowded and noisy, still a destination worthy

of the journey, at least until gas prices rise to the 4-dollar zone,

about the time children get bored, June fifth or so, and parents

frantically plan family vacations on an inflation-deflated dime . 


This was the poet’s week that was.


If you’ve ever wondered what poets think about, sometimes it’s everything.Image 


About maryjocee

Mary Jo Caffrey retired from the Air Force and lives in Gretna with her husband Larry, also a retired “lifer.” They live with a two little dogs and four parrots. Mary Jo is a native Nebraskan with a degree from Kearney State College and has experience teaching combat crew procedures to STRATCOM aircrews and English to middle school students. Guess which was the easier job. Mary has been writing forever, but got serious about it after editing a family memoirs book a couple years ago. Her specialties are poems, short stories, and a quirky novel under umpteenth revision . Mary Jo is a member of the Nebraska Writer’s Workshop and the Nebraska Writers’ Guild.
This entry was posted in Uncategorized. Bookmark the permalink.

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out /  Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )


Connecting to %s