Mar-a-LagoA Poem by MontagMar-a-Lago At Mar-a-Lago there are chandeliers made of finest golden goldest gold They add distinction and a touch of class like the airbrush of a centerfold The half-burnt candles and gleaming fixtures hang motionless above the potions and elixirs that congregate around the profit-reaping mind. The owner stops in now and then to hoots and whoops and nostalgic rebel yells His knows the score, the price of fame they know when to stand and bay, when to kneel and pray that the truth be sent away for it can be such an inconvenience when airing out a well-earned grievance. Does he know that he has sinned? He knows only that the wind, the blustering wind has been
always set against him as he wandered the fields of Iowan corn or along the
darkening, blood-lusted prairie a figure from an imaginary pulling a wagon, hectored by crows burdened with secrets he
assures us he knows hoping to put on his medicine shows. Never unsure, never uncertain Dorothy saw him at a tug of the curtain He is our Wizard, we are his Oz all he asks in return is applause, everlasting applause after that his intentions get hazy it was also like that for Gatsby with Daisy. If all things can happen but none can be true we only discover what we already knew and wander the land, the coarse arriviste partly the fleecer, partly the fleeced partly
the image we see in a pool dissolving away at the last, how cruel that myth should end, to say there be a limit
that there be talk of plenty when there's one born every minute. © 2024 MontagAuthor's Note
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