POEMS: Grooming; Taps muted

Grooming

And each morning, early, between the watching and the tweeting,

he grooms his yellowing locks, the frontal swirl, sides and back

hanging straight, like the fringe on granny’s lampshade gathering

dust up there with the bats in the attic,

he grooms his hair with the patient attention of the greenskeeper

who must mow the putting greens daily and apply, at intervals,

the fungicides, pesticides, herbicides, among other chemicals,

required to keep the putting greens green

so that not a bee, nor fly nor beetle nor moth, will appear on the green

to distract the putter’s attention from the task at hand once the hair

has been groomed and the whites donned, making the golfer

in this respect only resemble a surgeon

preparing to operate once the grooming is done, the uniform donned,

and the white shoes’ laces tied, placing pressure on the rolled dough

of the abdomen as, while tying each knot, he must stoop low

over the amplitudinous investment in self,

until at last, red cap on yellowish hair, he is ready to step onto the green,

his own piece of nirvana, and place a ball on a peg, straighten with a sigh,

and, after shifting his weight and assessing the fairway,

settle down to the business of addressing a ball.

Taps, Muted

Of him it can truly

be said he is all bully

and no pulpit,

a bully who blames others

when he is the culprit,

a master of ballyhoo

who blows his own trumpet,

and rules by tantrum and tweet.

What’s to be done with a leader

who leads us backward step by step?

Best were

store item in a cool, dry place

pending return to sender.