Coriolis, 2005

Jamie Gage

Get up, country.

New Orleans is calling collect

but George Jr. chewed through

the cord so the charge is reversed

and the answer’s still no.

Go ahead and read the note

at the end of the dock: gone fishing

for lunch, with Rove in the Gulf

where it’s all bluefin and craps

and neocon Noahs on moby patrol.

Up there’s Trent Lott, cocked in the

crows’ nest and laughing, snapping

bottlecaps at Condi as she lines up

her shot. Starboard,

hundreds of miles from

the eye of the storm

they’ll dine on fish eggs & clam bellies,

tenderloin lamb with a neon mint glaze,

sip Cristal from a Waterford glass.

Meanwhile onshore

you’re still mired in shit,

in the sewer of Canal Street

as we watch through the screen

from the satellite dish. Get up, country.

Fire your President.