The autumn sun lit up the smudges
on the window of my office.
I was staring through the glare
at the last few pale leaves
drooping from the tangled branches
of the wisteria that framed the view.
The nests of April's starlings
now as exposed and empty
as foreclosed suburban homes.
It was a struggle to focus
on the notes for my lecture
on last summer's visit
to Hell Creek Montana, where
a team of university students
and paleontologists
were excitedly excavating
a nearly complete fossil
of a giant tyranosaur.
Instead I'm slogging
through the fallout and hysteria
in the blogs and papers
and the millions who lust
for a self aggrandizing
would be tyrant.
Would it be too much to wish for,
for an asteroid, the size of a small hand,
to strike the Manhattan tower
where that egomaniacal hemorrhoid
takes a 24 caret dump
on his 24 caret gold-plated commode.
Soon enough I trust
I can return to my ruminations
on the fate of the terrible lizards
who must have been God's darlings
for two hundred million years
and the PR wizard
returns to his gold encrusted
penthouse to brood on
how his brand has failed.
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