His little fat hands reach up to the stars, twinkling
Like golden lights on a Broadway billboard
For a show no man has ever seen, no one
Will ever be able to see, but that will still sell
Tickets to half-blind grandmothers, looking
To buy their children’s children presents.
I wonder sometimes so that I don’t become
Obsolete, like an American flag on the moon, waving
To a past not worth knowing, a future
Not yet connected and still undecided,
Dripping gold unto pennies, made of copper
That bear a president who forgot his hat.
I wonder sometimes so that I can help the little
Fat hands that reach out to lights to find
Something to grab onto, something to hold
Onto, even if the pang of the pain that he feels
Is just a stomachache and not the everything
Of what has been placed upon his 11-inch shoulders.