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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?