Birther

Sit in dark rooms
as Fox news
complains
that the President
is really from Mars.

He’s hell-bent on preventing
our Saturday-nights
from being
special.

We have the Constitutional right
to carry death
like a flask
in our hip pockets.

But this foreigner
wags his black finger
and calmly spews
sense
like spit
on our red necks.

So the plan is to wait
patiently
until the day
all these bleeding hearts
are dropped, one by one,
by lone
assassins,

and in the end,
alone in our darkness,
we…will…win.

poem by Steven Federle
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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