Some forty years back, in Time Magazine,
Saw I a narrow missing of bald head
By the bullets from Hinckley’s magazine
He had reserved for Ronald Reagan’s head,
Save that they had agreed about his ribs:
If Cowboy still lived, talk like babes with bibs…
The missed lucky skull that of a press man
I still remember bald, some kind of pan,
The Guy having bent down to catch his note,
Able to fast do so in a thick coat…
God! It must have been some sacred jotter
And this it proved against shorts that totter…
Either Satan forget his script and ways
Or God had sought to lengthen his days;
Still the jotter was his damned rescuer,
When Hinckley had wanted to heads skewer,
The jotter qualifying for the archives;
If you asked me: Deliverers’ Archives!
I started the engine of my wagon
And it began spitting the Fires of Dragon:
Hinckley’s alarming shots at Reagan!
But I kept firing Engine and Wagon,
And didn’t stop mouthing ‘Doggone!’
But they were still Hinckley’s insane bullets for Reagan
A finally vomited me at the Temple of Dagon,
For a Philistine bow by The New Pagan,
Wherefore God sent me a stopping Shagan,
With jealous instructions for me in Legon;
Into Smithereens blowing my wagon,
As idolatrous as Misguided Aaron
Do all Flamingos turn to plastic
at their death
or are they pantomiming
every breath
as buzzards returning
to old Hinckley
seek the memory
of something stinky
©1/9/2018
Buzzards and Flamingos Poetry Contest
Anthony Slausin - sponsor
Asparagus
peeps tiny
green helmets
from brown beds,
looking this way,
that,
to a spring sun
that has come again
like the vultures
to Hinckley,
Texas, settling
down
to business.