Nixon spent his last few days as president
Wandering the White House-
Drunk as a regretful prostitute
Pleasuring their 100th client.
I’ve spent nights drunk as Nixon,
Wandering grassy corners
That ensnared curb appeal
For super-markets. Some of those corners
Contained picnic tables. Stationed with caution
To keep the employees that smoked
Out of the customer’s view.
Those drunken ventures
Are symbols of abuse.
Because I controlled the moments
With shifting eyes
That separated need from leisure.
Crouched behind a bush
Listening to laborers gossip
And other useless inventions.
I ask my eyes
To disguise those moments
As places I belonged.
Perhaps this guilt
Will dry like spittle-
Ready to be wiped away
By dry courage and crooked knuckles.