I Like Ike

American Poetry Review, The, Jul/Aug 1997 by Sadoff, Ira

Ike was whispering to his shadow cabinet.

What they called the media back then

was all flash bulbs and phobias.

Earlier, this would bring me to my mother,

but that's like blaming the galaxy

for the burning star consumed by it.

Do I think I'm original? What I wear,

what I say, my complaints, are they not

what they called back then carbon copies

of the other sons and daughters of prosperity?

Back then, the statues and the mannequins

modeled for the concrete bunkers

to break the fall of the bomb. I was busy

with my hands in my pockets, looking down

on everyone, because, because it doesn't matter why.

I thought he ran the country. We also believed

in crystal balls and cul de sacs, in sexual secrets.

A few cascades and a couple going over the falls in a barrel.

But no one followed them to the bottom.

And we were disappointed when the danger passed.