We are trying to get picture and sound for the watchparty
Black screen
Eyewitness news at 11
Burble of commercials
Our singer is on jeopardy
What categories will she choose
Blood clots of Etruscan antiquity
Brechtian in-jokes from early 70s Fassbinder films
We are chewing warm fudge brownies
Gulping frigid milk
Digesting our hurried roast potato dinner
Oh weary, weary, our guts are weary
We worry that our cousins have become fascists
Luckily not our loving parents
We theorize that fascists still eat turkey and dressing
Twice a year we sing oh weary, weary, our guts are weary
But listen, I think I heard John Scopes but missed the question
I think I heard abracadabra but missed the question
I drink tea all night and my throat is still dry as my doctorate
I piss every thirty minutes and so miss final jeopardy
Our singer won a thousand dollars and came away in full voice
We are happy for her in rainless California
We hope her next recital will feature a selection of Loyalist songs
The last one I wrote today—it has only seven words, repeated seventy-one times
I am washing our plates and glasses in scalding water
I will not turn the faucet down or pull my knuckles away
Afterwards I will pound the piano keys seventy-one times
I will not sing the seven words—I will not, will not, will not.
James Miller won the Connecticut Poetry Award in 2020. Recent poems have appeared or are forthcoming in A Minor, Typehouse, Eclectica, Rabid Oak, pioneertown, Off Course, North Dakota Quarterly, Yemassee, Phoebe, Mantis, Scoundrel Time, Permafrost, Grey Sparrow Review, Blue River, 8 Poems, SOFTBLOW and elsewhere.