might be described as obamaesque,
puffing up his ego chest,
how news watching races the pulse it raises
his baby blues and blushing faces.
i bet the snow’s impressive
on the darkened backward mountains
listen to his tambourine
it takes you back a trip,
or two, doesn’t it?
the soapy memories slip
off elusive fingertips
of a ringed moon, reaching, poached
in iced toddy fog on the golf course of tomorrow,
to ridicule him, before i’d learn respect:
for a youngish man proved quite the test.