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It's the holidays. Not even an inveterate liar like our President (best recent Bush bash: Maureen Dowd's quip that the Bush
2 cabal is so brainwashed that Bush 1 has had to send in Baker and Gates to deprogram them), or a fetid scumbag like fired
O.J. editor Judith Regan (her first job was as cub reporter for the National Enquirer; classic tomes during her
tenure at HarperCollins included poontang queen Jenna Jameson's How to Make Love Like a Porn Star and finger-wagging
troglodyte Robert Bork's Slouching Towards Gomorrah) can rob a winter breeze of its cleansing bite, or alter the
small and sweet world beneath a hanging sprig of mistletoe.
So in celebration of the indestructible, and in shameless imitation of the folks at The Agonist, who had the great idea to post a poem thread in honor of the Winter Solstice, here is a poem that will help you to forget
about charlatans of all kinds. Happy holidays!
THE BANDWAGON
-Alfred Corn, Beloit Poetry Journal, Fall 1999
A tiny speck on the horizon.
Which doesn’t move or doesn’t seem to yet
Must be on the move; has enlarged, is now
The size of a thumb, and now still larger, look,
A newly gilded vehicle rocking and racketing
Down the pike. Besides the band—uniformed,
Gold-braided, their brasses aglitter—
A few grand figureheads clutch a post,
They wave and fire off grins at onlookers, who,
The boldest, respond by grabbing and climbing
A ladder dangling from the wagon, dragged
Onto the flatbed by earlier troops and welcomed
As opportune endorsements of their clan,
Another, another and another! And some
Impressive knot of adherents they are,
Arms on shoulders, the victor’s strut,
A promo for dazzled joiners farther on,
Who scuttle and jump to swell their ranks.
Each wheel turns faster, revving up
For the straightaway, hickory spokes
A blur like an electric fan at top speed,
Scribbles of gleam smeared across it.
Faster, closer, numbers snowballing
According to an exponent that also mounts.
Yet, nothing daunted, they swing aboard, dying
To be part of it, the A-list, the blue-chips.
Hup! It’s party-time, tap this keg and chug
Your suds, we won-won-won, and we’re one
High roller of a club, hotshots all, bigger, louder,
United stumpers we stand, sterling but humble.
Of course we commiserate with you hangdogs
Out there who fumbled the ball, who didn’t latch on
Quick enough. But rest easy, we’ll help you out
When we get a chance, why, sure. Meantime, ha ha,
Eat our dust! And then—then, like a flashbulb, it’s gone.
Sudden stillness. Still here. In open space, morning sun.
Which toplights the trees and their strange, shining leaves.
© 2006 Bruce A. Jacobs (Posted 12/20/06)
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