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Monday Meditations

This week's poem, "Golden Calf," was written during the pandemic. And although it was written about a particular golden calf, it could be about so many as we near these midterm elections. Please, VOTE.



The golden calf is wheeled down the hall,

festooned with buffoonery’s red, white,


and blue bunting. The Senate vote to ease

pandemic pain comes up short, so many


senators busy in the Hyatt Regency parking

lot, robed and lighting fires, dancing ‘round


the calf with golf clubs raised, ecstatic

against the hotel’s neon lights. The calf


promises nothing, and still the idolizers

chant, their ululating war cries drowning


out God Bless America, cries for help,

global death knells. Will no one be


our Moses, come down from the mountain

to break the tablets in two? Who will melt


down the calf, and from its molten body

fashion coins for the rest of us to buy


the reason, the medicine that will make us

whole again, heal us from the calfites’


spreading disease, so much more virulent,

more deadly than any puny virus?