by Mick Tomlinson
while I type this poem
a president speaks to his troops
behind me on the TV
wearing the same bomber jacket
the president before him wore,
saying the same damn things to the same ol' ears
about the same damn guns and the same ol' wars.
he makes promises he can't keep,
while I make another vodka tonic
that I intend to drink.
and to think,
I'm the one considering therapy.