Charles Gibson’s name was on the tip of my tongue,
and Kathleen was sure I meant Peter Jennings,
“But isn’t he dead?” Speaking of newscasters,
Tom Brokaw moderated the town hall style debate.
McCain kept calling us “friends,”
but he can’t comb his own hair
and I don’t have many 72-year-old friends.
An abandoned Rolling Stone
penned him the “Make-Believe Maverick,”
reporting he called Cindy a cunt who wears too much makeup
after she ruffled his non-existent hair,
but what about all of his cover up?
Two nights later we yelled about Sarah Palin in the yellow cab,
our legs grazing, our shoulders bumping,
our political passions on par with
those other passions we feel. You know—
the ones you feel in places like (to borrow
the word from McCain) your cunt.