POEM: Poor Rex

Poor Rex. You almost feel sorry for the guy

wounded by the honor conferred on him by

our tweetist president impressed by the Texan’s

chops as a world-class honcho businessman.

What’s more, a man who’s made deals

with Vladimir and his oligarch pals

who convert their pumped-up profits

into prime U.S. real estate. So, hey, let’s

confer a Friendship medal on our pal Rex,

who ranks as America’s most famous Scout,

a rugged fellow who loved Atlas Shrugged,

and who, on a tour that brought him out

of hiding in DC –Turkey first, Europe after–

looked as if the burden of office was too

heavy to bear, especially in light of his clue-

lessness in the unexplored field of diplomacy.

Painful to see him stalk down the line of

assembled ambassadors, granting each

a glare, as if a smile was asking too much

of the jet-lagged, ill-equipped diplomat,

whose expertise lay largely underground.

He could have been a statue pulled on a dolly

for all the warmth he exuded – a cold fish

out of water, doing his good Scout’s duty.

Or, rather, forgetting the Scout’s Oath Duty

Number 2, which urges Scouts to provide

“a cheery smile” to make life easier for others.

But a smile was asking a lot of the dude

at whose heels young Kushner was barking

if not yet nipping – son-in-law of D. J. Trump,

even less equipped than Rex for the Secretary’s job.

Oh, the things you find when you drain a swamp!