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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.
GOLDEN CALF
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?