Don Juan, in this quaternary age
Wears a tattered Akubra
And sings
The purple spoils of poetry.

Out there, where hawks cross-cut
Picture postcards
And the still chattering
Chimney stones are

Reminiscent of a penal code
Dead as death
To mindless bureaucracy,
Our Rake squats

In the quasi-fallout of things.
He has done time
In ‘Nam’; elsewhere; has
Swallows for eyes.

Contemplate. He’ll be President
Any day now.