“So a Norse God is giving it doggy style
to an oriental hooker with a lisp—”
He says, with the same authoritative voice
That called for a war-torn nation to live
as men, not as ostriches, nor as dogs in the manger.

Until Frances Perkins stops him short,
Having heard this one four times in twelve years.

Franklin looks into his martini,
Tries to believe something interesting, hopeful
Is floating between the gin and vermouth; something
That elucidates this world where even the greatest men

Never realize they aren’t funny.

Sociologists have taken screwdrivers to these theories.
Being inept leads to the inability to perceive it.
Like the green-eyed fame-starved
Who bear their soul through an off-key pop song
And wonder why faces in the unwilling crowd
seem to all want to just change the fucking subject already.

Eleanor is throwing dirty glances to Francis Biddle,
Who has a California Congressman cornered, boxed-in,
And unable to free himself of small talk’s tyranny.

Truman is trying not to make a mess of his raspberry cheesecake
On the brown leather chair
Unaware what he has gotten himself into, that
Roosevelt will die on the same day Citation is born.
And he’ll never hear how the joke ends.