🚀 go-pugleaf

�Pop�

Sitting in his seat, a seat broad and broken
In, sprinkled with ashes,
Pop switches channels, takes another
Shot of Seagrams, neat, and asks
What to do with me, a green young man
Who fails to consider the
Flim and flam of the world, since
Things have been easy for me;
I stare hard at his face, a stare
That deflects off his brow;
I�m sure he�s unaware of his
Dark, watery eyes, that
Glance in different directions,
And his slow, unwelcome twitches,
Fail to pass.
I listen, nod,
Listen, open, till I cling to his pale,
Beige T-shirt, yelling,
Yelling in his ears, that hang
With heavy lobes, but he�s still telling
His joke, so I ask why
He�s so unhappy, to which he replies�
But I don�t care anymore, cause
He took too damn long, and from
Under my seat, I pull out the
Mirror I�ve been saving; I�m laughing,
Laughing loud, the blood rushing from his face
To mine, as he grows small,
A spot in my brain, something
That may be squeezed out, like a
Watermelon seed between
Two fingers.
Pop takes another shot, neat,
Points out the same amber
Stain on his shorts that I�ve got on mine, and
Makes me smell his smell, coming
>From me; he switches channels, recites an old poem
He wrote before his mother died,
Stands, shouts, and asks
For a hug, as I shrink, my
Arms barely reaching around
His thick, oily neck, and his broad back; �cause
I see my face, framed within
Pop�s black-framed glasses
And know he�s laughing too.

The poem reads autobiographical � about a young Obama�s 
relationship with a much older man whom he calls Pop.

�Pop takes another shot, neat/ Points out the same amber/ Stain 
on his shorts that I�ve got on mine, and/ Makes me smell his 
smell, coming/ From me;�

Obama is a fucking queer.

�����